


The Darkling

by OffYourBird



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Historical, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Romance, Time Travel, mild drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 85,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: When Buffy’s quest to get Spike returned to her is fulfilled in an unexpected way, she finds herself in a complicated relationship with an intrigued master vampire who isn’t the man she loves, but who might be someday… if she can convince him to step out of the dark.Written for EF's 2017 Reunion challenge.





	1. Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Thus far, I haven't posted WIPs on A03, but I got the posting bug, so here we are. However, EF is still my home base for WIPs, so these updates are all staggered behind. Just fair warning :)
> 
> Many thanks to the amazing yellowb, who kept Buffy from wandering into convenience stores that didn’t exist and who has generally made sure I actually sound like I know what I’m talking about when it comes to being in NYC in the 70’s. This story is dedicated to her fantastic on-going and long-suffering alphaing and betaing efforts.

 

There came a point where there was nothing left in her apartment to clean. A point where everything, including the curtains and the crown molding, had been vacuumed; where the walls had been washed—twice; and where she’d even unscrewed the light fixtures to dust the bulbs.

Dawn had watched the entire process with a certain level of disbelief, but once Buffy got to the light bulbs she threw up her hands entirely. “Oh my god. You’re not seriously doing that.”

Buffy looked at her sister from the top of the stepladder, her mouth forming a grim line. “I don’t think anyone’s ever bothered to unscrew them,” was her only reply, before she attacked the fixtures with concentration worthy of the worst kind of demon.

“I think you’re the one with a screw loose,” Dawn muttered after a moment, before stomping out the front door. “I’m heading to Agata’s house.” There was a pointed pause. “Where her sister _isn’t_ a grieving nutcase.”

“I’m not grieving!” Buffy yelled at the closing door.

She wasn’t grieving. She wasn’t. Grief was selfish. She wasn’t allowed to be selfish when her backyard was filled with the bodies of young girls who’d never get any older because her friends decided to drag her back to life. She wasn’t allowed to be selfish when said backyard didn’t even exist anymore, because the  _town_  didn’t even exist anymore.

Drawing in a sharp breath, she scrambled down from the stepladder and eyed the apartment furiously. It wasn’t allowed to be clean. This was Italy, damnit, where everything was old and haunted by pigeons and caked in plaster. Pursing her lips, she strode back to the kitchen sink to give it another scrub. There was a ring of rust on the right ledge that was probably good for another half hour’s worth of work. She hoped.

She wasn’t grieving.

Grieving implied there was something wrong. And there was nothing wrong about saving the world. There was nothing wrong about witnessing a selfless sacrifice by the man who at the very last minute…

“‘No, you don’t’?!” She glared at the rust spot as she scrubbed. “I swear to god, Spike, I’m going to bring you back to life just so I can punch you for–”

Buffy froze mid-rant, the damp sponge falling from her fingers. Bring him back to life? Was that an option?

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind in the four months since Sunnydale. Admittedly, the first three months had been a blur; some mix of escaping and healing and then scattering to the four corners of the world to re-build everything that had been lost—all the while pretending that they weren’t all terribly scarred in some or many ways.

When the dust had settled, everything was different… and yet incredibly the same. Everyone still needed her to do things, even as they exclaimed how free her life was now. The new Slayers needed her to train them, Dawn needed her to caretake for and argue with her, Giles and the remnants of the Council needed her to report to them and wave the victory flag for them.

And she needed… she needed someone who was there whether she needed them or not.

She had needed Spike a lot in the last months of Sunnydale. He had transformed himself into her left-hand man nearly overnight—which really shouldn’t have surprised her, in the end. Despite his fashion style being stuck in the 80’s, Spike had pretty much reinvented everything else about himself on a regular basis. Up to and including getting a soul for her.

It was a gift she hadn’t asked for—something more extreme and devoted than a marriage proposal. Something purchased with nothing but pain because he thought it was what she deserved.

It had terrified her.

No one had ever done that kind of thing for her before: gone and changed their entire nature just to be better for her, to make her life easier and safer and kinder. But once she’d accepted the gift for what it was, it had taken her even longer to come to terms with what it meant to her—what  _he_  meant to her.

And then he’d gone and died in the most obscenely heroic way. But not, of course, before making sure his last words to her were incredibly stupid.

The noble jackass.

But maybe he didn’t have to stay dead. The thought made her tremble. She knew immediately that she was treading the same dangerous path her friends had tread two years ago—terrible need and hope crossing a line that should never have been crossed.

But she had been in heaven. Spike was a toss-up.

Half of her hated the idea that Spike might not be in heaven (shouldn’t saving the entire world sort of balance out all the deaths he’d caused? If it was a numbers game, he was several billion in the green) but a larger, terribly selfish part of her now hoped he wasn’t. Hoped that he was somewhere she could ethically bring him back from.

Ironically, she needed the person who had originally crossed the line to tell her where it was. Swallowing down the swirling pit of conflict that her stomach had become, she left the sponge in the sink and grabbed her cell phone from the kitchen table.

“Wil?”

“Hey,” was Willow’s chipper greeting. “Everything okay?”

“I need you to find where Spike is. The sooner the better.”

“Uh, Buffy…” There was an apologetic, worried hesitation. “You do remember that Spike’s dead, right? Like dead-dead?”

Buffy couldn’t help but roll her eyes, even as her throat tightened with the words. “Yes. I remember. But can you find him?”

A long pause held out over the line. She was sure Willow was about to barrage her with questions, but her friend surprised her with a simple, “There are thousands of hell dimensions. It could take years to go through them all…”

Buffy chewed the bottom of her lip. “How about heavenly dimensions? Can you... just make sure he’s not in any of those?”

“Um, well, that’s a little easier. Only a few hundred of those, but we’re still in the year plus range.”

“Oh.”

“But,” Willow’s voice brightened and gained speed, “there are only a few dozen that human souls can ascend to! I could probably get through those within a month or two. Three, tops.”

“The sooner the better,” Buffy repeated, grateful relief filling her. She exhaled loudly. “Thank you, Wils. Just– thank you. For not… you know.”

There was a small, rueful laugh from the other end. “Hey, I’m glass house girl here. No stones on my end. And you’re… checking first.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be quick.”

“Thank you,” Buffy said again, before exchanging a quick goodbye. Then she collapsed limply, dazedly, onto the couch. She was going to get him back. As long as Spike wasn’t in a heaven, she would get him back. Somehow. Spike had fought for a soul for her—the least she could do was fight for him.

Then her second epiphany of the day nearly clobbered her over the head, and she scrambled back for the phone.

Angel picked up after two rings. “Buffy?”

“I need to know everything you can tell me about an African demon named Lloyd.”

She’d really thought Spike was screwing with her when he’d told her that the demon who’d granted him his soul was named  _Lloyd_ , but the vampire had just snorted, his mouth quirking into a crooked smile. “Believe me, it was about the only thing worth a laugh in the whole bloody place.”

Angel met her statement was a startled silence, followed by a slightly offended sounding, “Well, hello to you, too.”

“Hi,” she amended, slightly chastised. Then she frowned. Not even a couple dozen words in and Angel was already treating her like an errant child. Spike would have launched right into story. Well, souled Spike would have. Unsouled Spike would have probably given her some kind of stupidly sexual smirk and lowered his voice to a purr, with an infuriating, “What’ll you give me for it?”

Either way, he wouldn’t have reprimanded her.

“So, Lloyd,” she repeated, with a bit more steel. “Have you heard of him?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s an Asphyx demon—they’re cousins to vengeance demons. Wish-granters.” There was an abrupt pause. “Buffy, what are you doing?”

There was no way she was getting into that. The minute Angel heard Spike’s name, his jealous hackles would go up and she’d have to spend the next however way too long soothing his bruised ego. It was clearer now than it had ever been—certainly clearer than it had been before the battle with the First—that she and Angel were in the permanent “ex” category. He’d given her a magical amulet that killed its wearer and hadn’t even so much as apologized for it. Heck, he hadn’t even tried to get back together with her, which really just proved the suspicions that she hadn’t really wanted to be true, but that seemed to be: Angel wanted her love, but he didn't want  _her_. Now that the threat to her heart was apparently gone, he was happy enough to go back to ignoring her.

As if reading her thoughts, Angel sighed. “If this is about Spike…”

“It’s about me,” she said tersely.

She could practically hear the disbelieving look on his face. “He died a hero, Buffy.”

She really wanted to know how much it cost him to say those words.

“He did,” she agreed calmly. And he was going to live as one again, if she had any say in the matter.

“So this isn’t some crazy attempt to get him back.” There was an odd swallow over the line. “Because he’s gone, Buffy. He’s not coming back.”

_Yeah, well, if we all listened to your feelings on the subject of permanent deadness, I’d still be in the Master’s cavern._

“This isn’t about him,” she repeated, then added the only thing she could think of to get him off the subject. “It’s a Slayer thing.”

There was another long pause, then, “I’ll send you what information I have.”

 

***

 

For all his reluctance, Angel came through. Two weeks later, she had a stack of mail at her door with a slew of details about the recorded trials Lloyd had “hosted,” complete with a set of GPS coordinates to his desert lair.

Then all that was left to do was wait for Willow and figure out what in the world qualified as good survival gear for an African desert.

She gave up on cleaning the apartment after month four, to Dawn’s clear relief, but then found herself with a myriad of strange hobbies (trying to home-make pasta was the  _worst_  idea), while vacillating between anxious, aloof, and almost frighteningly giddy.

By month six, Dawn had apparently decided it was safest just to spend all her non-school hours at one friend’s house or another.

Buffy couldn’t help it; her insides were a complete wreck, everything entirely twisted with expectation and fear and worry. She felt constantly tipsy, as if she was on the edge of drinking one too many glasses of wine—her taste buds begging her for more, and her muscles too dazed to understand why it was a terrible plan.

It was, she realized, exactly how Spike had felt about her, once upon a time.

“You’re a bloody drug,” he’d whispered in her ear one night during their ill-fated affair, as he thrust lazily in her on the bed, the low rumble of his voice making her shiver with a million shades of desire and denial. “All my veins are burning for you. Feel like I’ll die if I’m not right”—he thrust into her so sharply that she gasped—“here.”

She’d melted into his words even as she’d stubbornly refused to acknowledge them. Acknowledging them meant they were real. And nothing she did in Spike’s bed, or on Spike’s floor, or on Spike, had been allowed to be real.

Nowadays, real sounded impossibly nice.

After an eternity, which was really the end of month six, Willow had an answer. “I’ve gone through them all, Buffy. I mean, all the ones he could go to.”

“And?”

“No evidence of him. I’m sorry.”

 _I’m not_ , was her immediate thought, everything in her tightening with fierce determination. No way was she letting Spike—her _Champion_ —spend eternity in hell. She’d get him back and then do whatever she had to do to make sure that the next time he dusted he’d be headed straight for a good place. Heck, she’d make him so good that all the heavenly dimensions would be fighting over which one would get to take him.

The week after Willow’s call was filled with a strange kind of clarity. Buffy quietly made arrangements for Dawn in the off chance that her trip went sour, and she mailed the scythe to Faith in Cleveland. Unfortunately, all the records of Lloyd had made it clear the demon didn’t allow outside weapons in play, and she wasn’t about to risk the scythe getting lost in the middle of Africa. Despite their mutual semi-dislike, Buffy could always count on her sister Slayer to not ask questions when it mattered. All Faith had done was call after it arrived, with a grim, “Be careful, B.”

“I will.”

 

***

 

Careful was a relative thing for a Slayer who—for all intents and purposes—was offering herself up as a coliseum amusement act for an audience of one.

With the GPS coordinates in hand and a gigantic pack stuffed with as many protein bars and bags of water as was physically possible for it to hold, Buffy found Lloyd’s cave with relatively little issue, the long days of the equatorial sun brightening her steps.

And then she plunged straight into midnight. Boy, did she know how to pick vacation destinations.

The first few trials Lloyd set for her were relatively straightforward, though still deadly to the extreme. Kill demon A before it killed her.

She was good at that.

After the second demon, who she’d managed to impale with its own poisonous pincer, she even earned an amused sounding, “Entertaining,” from her illustrious host as he sank his rock-armored self back into the shadows of the cave.

Buffy just stared after his silhouette with a wry snort. “You really oughta get out more.”

It got a little trickier after that. Luckily, there were no beetles crawling under her skin like Spike had gotten, but being plunged into a pitch black pool for hours where the rock walls were glass smooth and she had no choice but to sink or swim, and then fending off weird spirits that hissed all her life’s failures at her like damning poetry meant the place didn’t exactly make it onto her ‘top ten most relaxing vacations’ list.

By the time her final trial came around, Buffy was no longer sure how long she’d been in the dark. Five days? Eight? Either way, her water supply was running low, and she desperately hoped she could make it back to civilization before she died from dehydration. If Spike’s return from hell was anything like Angel’s had been, she’d have a feral vampire on her hands, and that was likely to take a couple days, at minimum, to deal with.

Oh, well. She’d had worse problems.

Case in point, her last opponent. She knew it wasn’t probably the best sign when Lloyd led her deeper into the dark, into some cavern with a ceiling taller than the torchlight could reach. In fact, she was pretty sure, upon initial viewing, that she was supposed to kill some kind of evil elephant.

“Wow, Lloyd, how do you stock this zoo? Do you have a special demon delivery on speed dial?” She tried to keep the perk in her voice as she went, despite the fact that exhaustion and pain were tugging at all her limbs with screaming impatience. She was staunchly ignoring the half dozen wounds battering her skin, and the very noticeable chunk that was missing from her left shoulder blade.

Lloyd, predictably, just blinked his glowing streetlamp eyes at her. “Begin.”

It was a closer call than she would have liked, but being trampled to death was  _definitely_  a vacation faux pas she didn’t plan to commit.

And she had a vampire to get.

As the giant gray demon toppled to the cave floor—his skull handily bashed with a stalagmite—Buffy straightened to a victorious stand, although her knees were shaking.

“Impressive,” Lloyd said impassively.

“I aim to please,” she replied dryly, nursing a deeply gashed and stinging elbow. She really hoped that wasn’t bone peeking through.

“You have endured the required trials,” the demon continued, with some small measure of annoyance.

She swallowed down the sudden dryness in her throat. Unlike with vengeance demons, Lloyd wasn’t really interested in twisting words—thank god. In fact, according to all records, he was far more interested in reading thoughts. For Pete’s sake, Spike had managed to say something as vaguely flowery and over-the-top romantic as “Make me what I was so Buffy can get what she deserves” and the demon still knew what he meant.

“It was seared in my brain,” he'd told her. “Whatever rubbish my mouth was spilling, all I wanted was my soul.”

She wasn’t word girl; and this didn’t seem like the time to try, anyway, so she simply said, "Bring Spike back.”

Her mind swirled with images of her vampire—hers long before she had wanted him to be. She thought of his true-blue gaze, and his unfairly full lips that could trace venom or love or pleasure, and his infuriating, shit-eating grin. She thought of his coat. Oh, especially the coat.

Not seeing him with it after he came back souled hadn’t helped with the wiggage one single bit. And then it had made her angry. How had it happened that he’d grown softer while she’d just grown harder? She couldn’t be harder than him. It would mean she was really alone up on that precipice, teetering between gravity and the battering wind of her mission.

She didn’t need some cowed pseudo-Angel, more interested in eating rats than killing ubervamps. She needed Spike. She needed the Slayer killer.  _What I want is the Spike that's dangerous. The Spike that tried to kill me when we met._  It had been a cruel thing to say, but she couldn’t afford to be nice when the ultimate evil was breathing down their necks.

With her thoughts so caught up in themselves, she barely heard Lloyd’s intonation.

“Very well. I will take you to your Slayer killer.”

She snapped back to the present in alarm. “Take? You’re supposed to bring–”

But the rest of the words were lost as the ground shifted beneath her feet. Then she was falling through the dark and the damp, everything echoing with the deep, heavy squeal of moving rock. After a moment, the sound transitioned into the sharp grating of steel wheels, a burst of person-generated din swamping her senses as she plunged midair into some crowded space… straight down onto a very familiar figure in black leather.

She landed on him in a painful tangle of limbs, and they both crashed to the cement.

“What the bloody fuck!”

 _I will take you to your Slayer killer._  Lloyd’s words echoed in her addled brain as she rolled off of Spike’s prone form, and her only coherent thought was that Lloyd was a tad too literal.


	2. Slayer Killer

Spike was high as a fucking kite as he swung his arms into the Slayer’s— _his_ —coat and stepped off the train car into the underground proper. God, but that had been a glorious dance. The Chinese girl had been all business, which had been for the best at the time, since he had been too young to really appreciate—or survive—much else. Nikki, though… he could have danced with her all night. Still, it had been a good set between them, full of trysts filling the past few weeks, including a memorable first meeting in Crotona. It had been raining stair rods, and most the minion-types had taken cover and waited for an easier bit of night to have their supper. But he was hunting the hunter, and that was a whole other sort of game. If not for the kid, he would’ve tasted her that night. Admittedly, he wasn’t exactly sorry—he hadn’t wanted it to end so soon.

The challenge was most of the fun, after all; and if the Slayer had a pawn or two in her back pocket, more power to her. In the end, it had still come down to them and that delicious razor’s edge between skill and luck. And he, William the Bloody, had come out on top.

New York was going to make him a king.

He had no more than found his way onto the main walkway of the underground when something heavy and painfully bony hit him straight on the head, smacking him to the ground on his back like so much dead fish.

“What the bloody fuck!”

His attacker, for it definitely seemed alive, rolled off him before he could shake his daze. Thank god he didn’t need to breathe, or else he’d have been down for a mite longer with the weight that’d stomped on his chest. With a snarl, he rolled to his feet and glared at his own personal cartoon anvil come to life.

It was a woman.

He blinked incredulously at the petite figure as she slowly rose to a stand and stared at him. Her expression brimmed with such blinding hope that the force of it shoved him backward like a slap.

“Spike?” Her voice was soft and girly, wavering with some rainbow of emotions he had less than zero desire or ability to suss out.

He gaped at her. The chit looked like she’d been through the wringer. She stank, all the scents of a human gone a week without bathing, and dirt mired most every inch of her, with bits of sunburn and mostly unhealed wounds peeking through in splashes of red. The combination was strangely and bafflingly delectable.

And– He froze. There was a Slayer near.

The itching sense of one crawled over his skin, and he anxiously searched the platform with rising disbelief. He’d killed the bitch! Snapped her neck and looted her corpse. No way was she up and taking a fucking walkabout! Distracted, he nearly forgot the dive-bombing apparition in front of him until she took a step nearer.

He turned back to her with narrowed eyes. She wasn’t familiar in the slightest, but she obviously knew him by name. Probably a sodding groupie. God, if he had nothing better to do, he’d wipe them all out. Half-witted wretches slavering for immortal life when they didn’t even have enough regard for their current one. His lips curled in disgust as he glanced around again for the source of the Slayer itch. “Listen, sweetheart, I’d drain you if I thought you were worth the effort, but you look like the arse end of a dog. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The woman’s green eyes widened almost comically with shocked hurt, and then a kind of mesmerizing, furious fire came into them. “You  _asshole_! What the hell is–” Her voice cut off and her glowing, vengeful face grew incredibly pale. “Oh my god... why is… your hair...” Her eyes raked down him, looking more and more stunned and sickened the lower she went.

Well, fuck her. He hadn’t bothered with a set of pictures recently, but he knew he looked sodding swell, especially with the coat, which fit even better than he’d hoped it might. Just as he was about to say to hell with the filth and drain the slag anyway for being such a stuck-up cunt (or, at the very least, snap her dirt-streaked little neck), she gave a strange sort of whimper that wrenched his chest in a highly unpleasant way.

And then she turned and ran.

It took him a solid moment to realize the presence of Slayer had fled along with her.

What the ever-loving fuck was going on?

He was a little vague on how the Chosen bints got Called, but he was really bloody sure it wasn’t on delivery from above. Especially right on top of the one who’d done in the previous bird. Would be a right sort of into the frying pan scenario if that were the case. Be damn interesting, though.

For a long moment, he stared into the crowd in the direction she’d gone, half-tempted to take after her. With the way she was bleeding, it’d likely be an easy chase. But something stopped him. Right out disturbed him, as a matter of fact.

The bird had  _known_  him. No stranger had ever said his name the way she had—hell, no person at all. Not with such desperate longing and recognition and relief. It was making something hot writhe in his chest, where nothing should have been working at all.

With an uneasy growl, he straightened his new coat, fingering the leather prize with considerably less glee than a few moments ago. Nostrils flaring, he fixed on a predatory scowl and strode through the crowd with such fierceness that all the blood bags made way for him almost without realization.

He had to get home to Dru. Most importantly, he needed to brag about his conquest. She’d no doubt finally give him a good shag for it, after a week of keeping him out of bed. A bed in which she’d been fucking all sorts of types, not all of them food. He’d come back yesterday to find some bloody knob-headed Kailiff demon on his way out, positively reeking of her. The Kailiff had made it to the door all right, just in a few more pieces than he came.

God, he loved his contrary, vile goddess, but she was rough on the heart in patches.

Still, Dru would know what had just gone on with this Slayer Parent Trap rubbish. And, if she was feeling well enough, he might even be able to make heads or tails of what she was saying.

 

***

 

When Spike walked into the flat, it was easy to see his dark beauty was having a good day. She had one of the minions strung up by the door, arms swinging helplessly as he careened by his ankles from the ceiling. His face was a shred of claw rakings and he whimpered pathetically as Spike strode by, the master vampire ignoring him entirely. Gormless git. Any of the turnlings worth their salt knew better than to get too near Dru if they wanted to keep all their body parts intact.

The lady in question was murmuring merrily in the far corner of the living room, having tea with her dollies at a low table on the carpet.

“What’d this one do, poodle?”

“He talked out of turn,” she said regally as she filled Miss Edith’s teacup with a thimbleful of blood. “Rude, rotten boy. Needs to be punished.”

Spike snorted and knelt to the floor, to the place setting she always thoughtfully reserved for him. “No doubt.” He looked back coolly at the terrified minion. “Best leave him for a few days, eh?”

Dru hummed agreement and poured him the blood tea, her gaze snapping to him reprovingly as he impatiently tapped his cup with a finger. He halted the motion abruptly. He’d learned through trial and error that interrupting her during tea service never ended well for him. So blessedly English, his girl.

“Sorry, pet. Just have some news.”

Her lips widened into a pleased smile, her dark eyes alight and glittering. “The pixies have been murmuring it, yes.” She eyed his new coat with obvious appreciation and he puffed up proudly. “Taken the light, my knight, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I did her good. Snapped her neck all properlike. Wish I could replay the sound for you—know you’d love it.” He couldn’t help but grin, some of his victorious high returning.

Dru nodded, turning back to the small table and tilting a cup of blood to Miss Edith. Blood dripped down the doll’s chin. “Oh, Miss Edith! Such a mess you’ve made, silly girl. No biscuits for you today, naughty naughty.”

As she wiped the doll’s chin, she turned a hard gaze back to him. Spike stilled, not sure to which end her mood was about to pivot.

“Silly demon’s set time a-twaddle,” she whispered, pursing her lips. “It’s all gone to splinters.”

He took a careful sip of tea, mind racing. “Has it now?” Something about time throwing a spanner would explain a second Slayer suddenly out and about. Even if it didn’t explain a damn thing about how she knew him or—most disturbingly—why she’d looked at him like he was Christ’s second coming.

Dru nodded vehemently, abandoning the doll cleanup and turning onto all fours. She crawled toward him with childish solemnity, her hips swaying seductively. His prick swelled in his trousers. “It’s all above my head. It squawks, you know. Loy! Loy! Tells me all sorts of delicious things.” She reached him and set her thin fingers against his thighs, to his gasping groan. “No rocks talking, no crosses on the heart like drapery. But daddy will be here. Be all dark and mine, not all chased by sunshine.”

He felt his stiffy deflate and growled warningly. “Angelus is bloody well gone, Dru. He’s not coming back.”

Dru just looked a bit sad, though her resolution didn’t waver. “Stinking little spark, but he’ll come back for his girl. He will, he will.”

Spike snarled and gripped her wrists in a hurting hold, not loosening even as she whimpered. “I don’t want to hear about your sodding  _daddy_  right now. I’m the one who’s here, and I’ve offed the bloody Slayer!”

Dru’s gaze turned sympathetic and soft, and he released his grip on her hands, pulling her instead onto his lap. “That you did, my William,” she crooned, nuzzling his neck with the tiny nips of fangs that always drove him wild. Some of the tension in him drained in relief. Finally, they were back on track for the night.

“My vicious prince,” she whispered, and the words filled him like deadly siren song. “My darkling thrush, singing so sweet to me. Of blood”—she drew a nail down his chest, ripping straight through the cotton of his shirt and leaving a long bead of dark blood, bending her head to lap at it as she eyed him coquettishly—“of pain”—she raked her entire hand down him and he hissed with pleasure—“and sweet black dreams with all the rivers dead.”

All thoughts of the strangely appeared Slayer fled from him and he rose to his feet, taking Dru into his arms, to her squeal of delight.

“I want a prize,” he told her huskily. “Your knight slayed the dragon, pet. And he wants his bloody prize.”

“Your princess has it. A good gift for a very nasty boy,” she told him happily, clapping her hands as he strode down the hall and flung her onto their bed. Well, Dru’s bed, really. He’d been making do with the bloody sofa for the past week while she played her little games. And hell, there was still a dead snack in here, reeking up the place as it rotted in the corner. Looked like it had been a young boy, once upon a time, though she’d done such a number on him that it was hard to be sure.

“Poodle, what did I tell you about taking out the rubbish? Don’t need the place any fouler than it is already.”

Dru pouted from the bed. “But he was so pretty. Wanted to keep him.”

He sighed. “Yeah, well, he’s not pretty now.” Nose wrinkled, he tugged on one of the corpse’s bloated arms and tossed it into the hall, shutting the door after him. “I’ll have the minions take him in a bit.” When his sire still looked putout, he added, “We’ll go for a stroll tomorrow, yeah? Find you a new pretty present to look at.”

That seemed to satisfy her, for she lay back on the comforter with a purr. He wasn’t about to miss the invitation. Carefully shrugging out of his new coat, he stripped and climbed up from the end of the bed, shifting into his demon face now that the stench of dead sprog wasn’t so god awful.

“My wicked enchantress,” he said reverently, sliding hands up her gloriously long legs. “My midnight huntress.”

Dru squirmed under him with happy little exclamations. “Make all the fingers hurt. All the snap and crunch and end. Want to feel the snapping of that Slayer’s neck.”

He grinned, hands reaching up to throttle his beautiful, twisted girl. His fingers squeezed until bruises bloomed while she thrashed wildly underneath him, raking his back with claws as her arousal bloomed at last. It always took a spot of torture to bring it out. He shoved her knees open with his own and thrust himself mercilessly inside her cool cunny, letting it quench the ache of his cock. He rode her violently, employing the shackles at the headboard so that they scraped the delicate skin of her wrists in just the way she liked.

Sometimes there was a pang of disappointment at their rutting ritual, always so bound up in the many ways Angelus had utterly fucked her in the head; but it was the only way she understood love, and sometimes—if he hurt her well enough—she’d let him make love to her the way he wanted to, whether it was tender or just playfully brutal. And he gratefully accepted every moment she gave him of it.

But today he was glad to hurt her; all the leftover energy from his second Slayer kill swelling his demon with ferocious need. Suddenly, he was blindingly furious at the new Slayer bint who’d shown and rid him of his afterglow. He let his fangs extend and plunged them right into Dru’s rounded little tit, savaging the skin as he pulled from her and she shrieked in ecstasy.

Once he was done shagging his beloved, he’d go find the flying little bitch and make her his third notch. And this one he’d taste for sure. He’d drain every little drop while she screamed.


	3. Displaced

Buffy was wearing a stolen jacket. Admittedly, she wasn’t proud to be channeling her ex-klepto of a sister. In fact, she was basically the opposite of proud. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

And she was pretty sure being stuck in 1977 qualified as a desperate measure.

It hadn’t taken more than a look at Spike’s craft store stylings (seriously, Spike,  _safety pins_?) and the general crowd on the subway platform to realize something was majorly wrong in the world of Buffy. Fleeing onto the semi-dark streets had sealed it—streets where the cars weren’t quite Desoto-level old, but were getting there. Someone’s discarded  _New York Times_  had clued her in to the full extent of her predicament (and the city’s, which seemed pretty desperate all on its own).

The overflowing dive bar at the end of the block had been a godsend, some place with lights dingy and red enough that whatever pile of gross she looked like was somewhat obscured. And it had a bathroom, which was really all she’d cared about. It wasn’t as good as, say, a place with an actual shower, but the presence of a sink and paper towels got the job done to an acceptable standard. She even managed to scrub her hair in the sink, and her skin had been skin-colored again afterward, even if it was laced with wounds and bruises (thankfully, the gash on her elbow seemed less severe than she initially suspected). Sadly, her clothes hadn’t fared nearly as well; her shirt was the worst offender—in near tatters, long past being able to pass for intentionally destroyed and nearing ‘clearly a hobo person’ territory.

Leaving the safety of the bathroom, Buffy spied that someone had left their leather jacket haphazardly on a bar stool and—after a moment’s hesitation and a stomach full of guilt—she swiped it. It was about three sizes too big.

She was going to kill Lloyd. And then have Willow resurrect him so she could kill him again. With maybe a third time for good measure.  _I will take you to your Slayer killer_ , he’d said. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure things out (which was good, because her brain cells were currently struggling). Spike had killed Nikki in New York. And on the subway, no less. Which meant she’d probably been dropped on 1977’s Spike right after he’d snapped her sister Slayer’s neck. Right after he’d taken the duster off her corpse.

It was a good thing she’d barely eaten, or else her stomach would have found a way to turn itself inside out.

Anger and cold practicality coated her with trained precision, smothering all the other feelings that were threatening to break through. Those other feelings would have to wait until she was home and could cry carefully into her mattress. No one heard her there, so it didn’t count.

Right now, she would… Buffy paused outside the bar, her lower lip trembling despite herself. She would find a way back to 2003, and then she’d kill Lloyd, and then she’d figure out a way to get Spike— _her_  Spike—back. The fact that there was a different version of Spike here was an entire other level of screwed up and confusing. A version that was an evil killing machine wrapped around the fingers of his nuttier than peanut butter sire.

God, she had to get back to 2003, and fast. Maybe she’d contact the current (past?) day Council and let them figure out how to get a time-displaced Slayer back to her right time.

An awful thought struck her. What if Lloyd had only sent her here because there wasn’t a 2003 Spike to bring back, in hell or elsewhere? What if the amulet hadn’t just killed her vampire, but obliterated him entirely? Angel had said Spike was gone and had seemed damn vehement about it. What if her ex had really been saying, “Sorry, Buffy, that nice evil amulet I gave you? Well, it actually dusted Spike to eternal smithereens. Good thing it wasn’t me!”

The thought nearly sent her to her knees.

It wasn’t grief. It was worse than that. She would go back to 2003 and potentially lose Spike forever. But then, it wouldn’t really be any different from before. If he was gone, he was gone, and nothing about her little blast to the past that would change that. Unless… oh god, unless  _she_  changed it.  _Because, great plan, Buffy. Just make the evil Spike fall in love with you and magically turn him good—because it’s not like_ that _took his ho-bag girlfriend leaving him and a sketchy organization effectively jailing his fangs… And once you figure out that bit of impossible, just transport the both of you to 2003… which you'd have royally screwed up by doing all of the previous stuff._  Not to mention that the 1977 Council was highly unlikely to help a vampire time travel with their Slayer. And there was probably some huge and apocalyptic issue with that kind of timeline shift, too. And… why the hell was she even thinking about this?

Buffy shook her head at herself and took off down the street. It was funny—in an unbelievably unfunny kind of way—that two years ago she didn’t even have the energy or inclination to encourage a chipped and desperately willing Spike toward the path of good. And now she was daydreaming about tackling an evil, soulless Spike who’d kill her as soon as look at her.

Except he hadn’t. He hadn’t cared about her at all. That  _asshole_. How dare he have acted like she wasn’t even worth his time? For god’s sake, her Spike had kept coming back to Sunnydale because she  _was_  the main occupation for his time. It was an irrational anger, she knew that. But that didn’t change it. Even when she’d been disgusted by Spike’s feelings (the kind she didn’t even like admitting existed, because believing them brought up a whole slew of bad logical progressions about Angel), she’d always taken a kind of terrible pleasure in them. She’d liked knowing that she was attractive enough and good enough that even an evil creature couldn’t help but want her. And, inversely, she’d hated him for daring to do it, because it often seemed like he was the only one who did.

But then Spike got a soul and all the bitter, unwilling feelings that were twisted up inside her—which were never allowed to be love—could safely surface and comb themselves into something kinder. Ironically, she knew if she’d just been kinder to begin with, Spike never would have gotten a soul. The confusion of that thought kept her up at night sometimes.

The queen of emotional screwed up-ness, that was her. It wasn’t that she didn’t know it, but there was always enough going on in the rest of her life—usually of the ‘save the world or everything literally goes to hell’ variety—that her heart inevitably drew the short end of the stick when it came to therapy hours.

Which really had to be the only reason she was in any way considering finding this time period’s Spike and throwing herself at him. That and, wow, eyeliner had looked weirdly good on him.

Buffy kept walking, pulling the thieved jacket closer around her. The air was brisk. According to her found newspaper, it was late May, and a touch of spring chill was still in the air. Which was the only reason her nipples were tightening underneath the remains of her shirt.

When she got back to 2003, Buffy decided, she was taking up the Immortal on his constant and annoyingly persistent requests for a date. For how little was actually known about the Italian, it was  _widely_  advertised that he never left a woman unsatisfied. It was also well known that he never got attached to anyone. Which sounded right up her alley.

It was certainly safer than thinking of 1977’s Spike. Who mostly looked like her Spike, and felt like her Spike (for all the limited contact she’d had with his body), but who was certainly  _not_  her Spike.

The Immortal couldn’t break her heart because he didn’t own it. This Spike could ruin her and not even understand why.

And wasn’t that fitting, after all the times she’d trampled on Spike’s heart. Except her trampling had been worse, since she’d known exactly how he felt about her. Spike had been right, during their affair; she did need a little bit of monster in her man, but only because she was a little bit of one, too.

Ignoring the tears that blurred her vision, Buffy wandered farther into whatever neighborhood she was in—away from the neon signs and ‘Doc Johnson’s Love Shop and Cinema’ type places and hookers and street-sleeping people—and toward some slightly quieter spaces mostly populated by towering, abandoned factories and the odd shanty town. There was a gaggle of people around her age gathered around what had once probably been a loading dock, smoking and laughing. Buffy went to pass them by, made uneasy by both her ragged clothing and the lingering scent of smoke—as if she needed any more reminders of Spike tonight.

One of the women tossed down her cigarette butt and caught Buffy's gaze, her tightly curled hair bouncing and her dark eyes boldly emphasized under wing-tipped mascara lines. “Hey, you,” she called out, with a lazy, challenging grin. “Loft party up here, if you wanna join. It’s gonna be  _bang-ing_!” She drew out the last with sharp pelvic thrust, to a communal whoop of laughter from her friends.

Buffy stopped dead, survival mode reeling her in with a flashback to L.A. After shoving Angel into hell, she’d spent the first few nights curled up in an alley, exhausted but unwilling to sleep more than a minute at a time in case of vampire or mugger or inquisitive policeman. It wasn’t a situation she really cared to repeat. And it was one she was in pretty big danger of repeating, seeing as all of her money was safely stowed in her backpack… in Lloyd’s cave twenty-six years in the future.

Weird factory party it was.

 

***

 

The woman who’d yelled at her ended up being named Val—one of six people who rented the bottom floor of the ex-factory as a temporary gallery and who sort of squatted illegally in the sprawling upper floors. Spaces which were apparently perfect for partying. There had to be fifty people in the renovated upstairs apartment alone, laughing and drinking and doing about five different kinds of drugs. Buffy zipped up her jacket farther and slunk along the wall, looking for a place carefully out of the way, preferably somewhere she could pass out without notice for a few hours.

Val had other ideas. She looked over at Buffy in the now somewhat more revealing light and whistled, pupils blown wide. “Shit, girl, you get in the way of someone’s fist?”

Buffy blinked, touching her face self-consciously. She’d sort of forgotten she had a black eye—likely from elephantitus kicking her into the cave wall. “Um. Something like that.”

“Damn. C’mon.” Val grabbed her hand and tugged her into some kind of converted bedroom, slamming the door against the apartment revelry. It was a spacious room, complete with a semi-starved potted plant and a bed suspended from the ceiling with thick chains, left to hang just over the ground as if it had an invisible bed frame.

Val grinned at Buffy's inspection of the furniture. “Neat, huh? Steve and I did it ourselves. A power drill and some anchoring bolts and you’re in business.”

Buffy glanced curiously around the room. “And no one cares that you’re here?”

Val snorted. “Unless we burn the place down, no one gives a fuck. And sometimes not even then.”

Well, it sounded like a bang-up kind of city for a vampire. Between Nikki and that, no wonder Spike had set up shop.

“Your clothes need to go in the trash,” Val told her bluntly, turning to dig into an unsteady dresser.

Buffy shrugged uneasily, the motion swamped beneath her too-large jacket. “It’s… I can’t get to my apartment right now. This is all I have.”

Val eyed her shrewdly. “Can’t get back for the same reason you got that black eye?”

“Um… yeah.”

Val thrust a denim dress thing in her direction. “Don’t go back, you hear me? Whatever the motherfucker says to you, don’t go back.” Her expression hardened. “Been there, you know?”

Buffy just stared at her for a long moment, then took the offering, sliding out of her stolen jacket and the remains of her clothes with perfunctory speed. It hardly fazed her to strip in front of a stranger, she realized. Months of living with a gaggle of teenagers had severely re-defined her idea of modesty. “Thanks,” she murmured. “This is really nice of you.”

Val shrugged, grabbing a case of concealer from a side table and motioning Buffy to sit on the edge of the bed. “Gotta stick together in this town.” She started covering Buffy’s cheekbone with make-up. “Otherwise, we’ll all get eaten alive.” She paused and gave Buffy a hard look, her gaze flickering to the lacerations now clearly visible on Buffy’s arms. “Got plenty of floor here, okay?”

Buffy nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. “Okay.”

They were quiet for a long moment, the silence allowing traitorous thoughts of Spike to float back in. Unfortunately, now that she thought it, Buffy couldn’t shake the feeling that her correct time was going to be terribly devoid of him. “If I… if I wanted to go to a punk rock concert around here, where would I go?”

Val shrugged. “CBGB’s.”

“Is that it?”

“It’s the big one. There’s Max’s, too, but CB’s is better.”

“Right.” Buffy sat and let Val finish covering up her black eye, her mind churning with a plan she hadn’t even realized she’d planned.

She was going to go back to 2003. But first she was going to see 1977’s Spike. Just once. Just in case this was all the Spike she would ever see again.


	4. The Other Slayer

Spike woke to a pillow being thrown at his face. He snarled an incoherent threat as he roused and went to sit up, only to realize his wrists were chained to the headboard. His eyes flicked forward to find Dru glaring at him from the foot of the bed. Oh for Chrissake, what had he done now?

“Ducks,” he said warningly, “you know I don’t like to be bound up in my sleep.”

Dru growled and moved farther away from him. “You’ll go to find her,” she said angrily. “Go to her and be hers if I don’t.”

He blinked in utter bafflement. “What the hell are you on about?” When his sire just glared more, he rattled the chains angrily. “Dru, let me go right now.”

“No!” she exclaimed, fisting her fingers into her hair with jerky, agitated motions. “Sunshine can’t have you! I’ve decided. My dark boy, not hers.”

“Well, of course the bloody sunshine can’t have me,” he said in mystified irritation. “Not feeling especially suicidal today, pet.”

Dru continued ranting over him. “Bad girl thinks she can take doggies out of place and put on her own leash. But no, no. Bad girl. He’s my doggie.”

Spike grimaced. He was alright with most of Dru’s endearments for him,  _except_ that one. Still, if he was anyone’s sodding dog, it was hers. His brow furrowed as he sorted through her words. Dru thought he was going to be unfaithful? Offended fury rose in him. He’d been faithful to her for a hundred fucking years—minus only shagging some food here and there—and she was going to punish him for thoughts he hadn’t even had?

 _Bloody buggering_ – Spike swallowed his anger with effort and halted his internal ranting. His mental goddess would keep him chained for days if he wasn’t careful. Gritting his teeth, he forced his voice to a soothing register. “Princess, you know I’m yours only, from eyeballs to entrails.” When she still looked furious, he added silkily, “And I’ll rip out the throat of whatever girl you’re so green about, pet, and feed her straight to you.”

There was the ticket. Dru’s eyes brightened and she inched nearer to him. “You promise?”

“Swear on my cold, evil heart, luv.”

Dru gave a giddy kind of giggle and started whirling around the room, skirt held in her hands. “You’ll put out the nasty sunshine? Turn the gold to dead and dark?”

“Consider her as good as in the ground,” he crooned. “Now be a love and come unchain your William.”

But as soon as Dru had looked like she was about to come around, she flipped back the other way, hissing and glaring at him again. Fuck. “It’s all to splinters, but always the same. You never kill her. Always talking, but the Slayer is never dead!”

Oh, that was bloody  _it_. He sat up as far as he could, snarling and jerking the manacles as his temper snapped. “ _I just offed the bloody Slayer yesterday!”_

Dru regarded him with hard, dark eyes. “Not  _her_.”

Spike stilled, a dirt-smeared blonde filling his vision. “You’ve seen the other Slayer.”

Dru nodded tightly. “She’s come for you, dear William. Sunshine’s come to burn and burn and burn.” His sire paused, arms crossing over her bosom like a petulant child. “And I’ve decided she can’t have you.”

Spike chuckled darkly. “Dru, the only thing a Slayer wants from yours truly is death.” His chest twisted rebelliously as he remembered the blonde’s frighteningly hopeful gaze. Covering his unease, he added, “And no matter what the bird wants, that’s all she’s getting.”

Dru narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not feed me lies. They slither all sadly.”

He kept another snarl down with supreme effort. “Poodle,” he said with careful, clipped measurement, “let me prove it to you. I’ll find this new Slayer and bring her to you on a platter. We’ll feast from her together—drain her dry and bathe in her blood.”

For a long moment, Dru just stared at him, and he didn’t dare breathe. Her every move was a bloody toss-up when she was in this kind of state. Finally, she smiled, a wicked, slow curve to her luscious lips. “Yes, I’d like to bathe in her blood,” she said with a slow purr, coming toward him with the manacle keys. “Paint me red and sticky, like a sweet all melted.”

His cock stirred violently at the thought. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed huskily. “I’ll paint you good.”

Dru’s face beamed with vicious pleasure and she calmly unlocked his wrists from the chains. Thank Christ. “Ta, luv.” Then he paused. His dark goddess was still harboring a snit, and he had the lingering suspicion that he’d find himself in the same predicament tomorrow night if this new Slayer wasn’t at her feet. Using leverage he had been sorely lacking when bound, he ripped the manacles straight off the iron headboard and tossed them to the carpet.

Dru’s smile faded into a pout. “You’ve taken my fun.”

“Sorry, pet,” he murmured, striding over to give her a quick kiss, “I’ll put them back later.” He grinned viciously, dressing quickly and shrugging on his new coat. “But I’ve got a Slayer to bag before we can play again.”

 

***

 

The minions were, predictably, being useless louts on the ground floor of the building. Condemned beyond caring, the apartment complex was one of a half dozen of its kind in the Lower East Side; boarded up, half burnt, and occupied only by junkies and demons. New York was a shitehole of epic proportions these days—blokes could go missing off the street without a single remark, and half the city was either destitute or near enough to it for the tang of angry desperation to rain thicker than the smog. It was bloody brilliant.

And the art was always best in a world gone to pot, besides. The music in this Yank town was the dog’s bollocks, and the clubs were spot-on for dinner and a show.

Lux—a mohawked punk who was usually one of the least stupid of the minions—was curled up by the door, slavering against some homeless nit whose corpse smelled a day old. Christ, did no one have food standards anymore? Spike leveled a sharp kick at Lux’s ribs and the fledge rolled away from his putrid feast with a yelp.

“Get up, blighter,” Spike growled.

Lux rose to his feet anxiously, golden eyes carefully lowered. “Sorry, Boss. Did you want a bite?”

Spike spared a disparaging half glance for the cold corpse. “Fuck no.” He bent forward and grabbed the minion by his spiked collar, causing the fledge to choke in surprise as he forgot he didn’t need to breathe. “You’re going to get off your pathetic arse and make yourself useful. There’s a new Slayer in town since I offed the last one—some little blonde bitch. You’re going to find where she’s gone to. Shake down the usual spots for noise. And don’t come back until you have news.” He tightened his grip and Lux’s eyes bugged. “Do I make myself clear?”

The minion nodded frantically at him, mohawk bobbing. “Yes, Boss,” he squeaked.

“Good.” Spike threw him down on the ground with a sneer. “Now get the fuck out.”

Lux scrambled to his feet and fled.

Spike turned and stared at the remaining handful of minions clustered about, who were eyeing him nervously. Dru was the more fickle mistress, and it was hard to say from one day to the next whether she’d be dressing up a minion for tea or slashing one’s throat because Miss Edith was displeased; but they all knew Spike would dust them as soon as look at them on any day of the week.

“Well, what are you twits still doing here?” Spike barked. “Get out and find the new Slayer!”

They all followed in Lux’s footsteps and fled into the night, leaving Spike to roll his eyes heavenward. God, but good help was hard to find these days.

Striking a match to a fag, he took a good long smoke as he paced in thought. If the new Slayer was making a ruckus, his minions—idiotic though they were—would find out where. And Slayers were always making a ruckus. He grinned in admiration, blowing out a ring of smoke. Righteous little bints wouldn’t know the idea of keeping a low profile if it bashed them over the heads. Hell, the newest one had hit  _him_  over the head. There was still a small lump from where his skull had gotten up close and personal with the cement.

He flicked the remains of his fag away as the blonde bint’s eyes filled his mind again. The emotion in them had been disturbing enough when pointed in his direction, but there was something else, too… Those eyes weren’t the eyes of a new girl fresh to the fight. Though it had been near impossible to tell the chit’s exact age with the amount of filth on her, she was easily no girl. Around Nikki’s age, maybe.

A challenge then. Good.

He swept out of the apartment building and down the street, retracing his steps to the underground. He’d let her flee near Soho, and it was as good a place as any to start, even though her scent was bound to be long gone. And even if he struck out on that front, there were still a dozen good watering holes on the way back where he could brag about his most recent kill.

After all, no point in being the Big Bad if you couldn’t brag a little. He grinned as he crossed into the underground and boarded the M train. Or a whole hell of a lot.

 

***

 

As expected, hunting the Slayer’s scent was a washout. But there was a tasty whore working the corner of Prince and Lafayette who still made the trip worthwhile, her delicious screams muffled by the death grip of his fingers over her mouth as he drank from her perfumed throat. When her heart faltered into nothing and her terrified lips were slack, he tossed her scantily clad corpse to the ground, leaving it shadowed by the dumpster where he’d sweet-talked her into a chat.

There’d be a new one working the same corner in an hour, if he felt peckish again. Bless the shagging industry’s desperate little heart, they let no square inch of street stay unworked.

Whistling tunelessly, Spike strolled down the street toward one of the better demon pubs—better being that the bartender knew how to overpour and the bar dwellers were always good for a nice brawl. He swaggered in, sliding on his demon face and spreading his arms high and wide as the bar quieted with his arrival, all eyes on his leather duster. Amongst most of the eviler circles in town, the swirl of black leather had always come with the warning of Slayer, and there wasn’t a demon stupid enough not to get the implication.

Spike grinned widely around his fangs as he eyed his audience. “Fine evening, innit. Now who wants to buy the Slayer of Slayers a drink?”


	5. Just in Case

The inside of CBGB’s was what Buffy imagined would happen if a graffiti artist and a dumpster diver had a sordid, filthy, screaming-crying-drug-induced-this-is-going-to-end-badly affair. She thought the walls might be brick, but—between the layers of spray paint and the dim lighting—she couldn’t really be sure. It was a smaller venue than she expected, more like a bar with a stage than anything else, and crammed in between some shoe store and a restaurant supplier. There was even a crappy motel on the floor above, which she had to assume was filled with deaf people or inhabitants who had zero plans to sleep at night anyway.

The main room was packed to overflowing with a mob of leather and metal studs and poorly sewn jackets proclaiming things like, “it’s called anarchy, asshole” and—her personal favorite—“bite me, whip me, fuck me.” Ugh.

There was a band playing that she didn’t recognize, but, well, that didn’t mean much, considering her basically non-existent knowledge of punk. Whatever it was, it was loud. Her entire body vibrated with noise, so heavy and deep she’d probably lost several notches of hearing already. She had no idea how vampires could stand it.

But they were here in droves.

The back of her neck was constantly buzzing, and her fingers itched toward the stake that had a permanent place in her waistband. Except that it didn’t, because she was in 1977, sans weapons and money and something so basic as a place to sleep. Luckily, the last had been rectified for now.

Once the Soho factory crew had learned that Buffy’s mom ran an art gallery in California (she neglected to say during which decade), they’d practically adopted her on the spot. Buffy had recounted how—at the tender age of ten—Dawn had decided a shipment of mom’s art was unfinished and decided to “correct” it, by adding huge sharpie lines across the canvas. Steve thought that was so hysterical that he fell off his chair, and Val just ran downstairs to grab some half-finished piece of artwork, mischievously scribbling all over it in pen.

They hung it in the living room.

Of course, Buffy realized as she laughed with them, that particular memory hadn’t ever actually happened. If the canvas really had been ruined, it was probably by someone else’s kid or some other stray accident. Her sister and reason for dying hadn’t even been real then.

It was sort of how she felt now, with the world flashing darkly around her, heavy with sweat and stale beer and cigarette smoke. She was just a ghost waiting for her unfinished business before she drifted off into the ether. And make with drift, she would... If Spike ever showed up. This was her third night waiting for him at CB’s, and worry was gnawing at her. What if Spike didn’t frequent here, after all? What if he was too busy with whatever kind of evil-doing a master vampire had to do?

Still—if he came—he wouldn’t be able to miss her, not even if he wanted to.

“I was like a bloody moth to the flame,” he’d admitted once. “Seeing you dancing there. Knew almost before I could blink that I wanted you. Not like how Peaches wanted you—none of that destiny claptrap, or nancy-boy thoughts of love and puppies. Just wanted to possess you—all of your gorgeous Slayer fire and death. Wanted that to be  _mine_.”

The buzz on the back of her neck grew sharper, with a panging familiarity, and Buffy nearly gasped in relief, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t immediately seek Spike out. Instead, she swung her hips even wilder, raising her arms above her head so that every curve of her body was highlighted under the thin cotton of her borrowed dress.

Moth to flame, huh? She was going to set him on fire. Channel her inner mystery girl with a dash of Faith, and buy herself just a few minutes of Spike’s interest before finding a way back to 2003. A small voice in the back of her head—one that sounded suspiciously like Giles—was already berating her for her recklessness. Something about disrupting time and tempting vampires and a whole bunch of reasonable, logical things she really didn’t want to hear. She’d saved the world more times than there were weeks in the year, lost her life and her love (in the multiple on both counts), and now had to deal with a stupid demon throwing her out of her time. Her poor, battered heart deserved  _something_. 

So she told Giles to shut up, and kept dancing.

 

***

 

To Spike’s increasing ire, neither he nor his hapless minions had caught a single whiff of the blonde Slayer since her headache-inducing arrival. Lux  _had_  reported that there were rumors of a new Slayer in Japan, however, leaving no doubt that something had gone utterly cattywampus. Dru was beyond brassed, and Spike had a nice raking of claw marks on his ribs to show for it.

“She’s probably just offed back to sodding never-never land!” He’d snarled earlier that evening.

Dru just eyed him coldly, with a terse, “You’re not looking hard enough,” before flouncing off angrily.

He’d left the building in a black fury, his only relief in ripping the head off the minion who was stupid enough to speak to him.

“Unreasonable mental bint,” he growled as he stalked into CB’s. Sod it. He was done looking for the Slayer tonight. He needed some music, a few good birds to leave drained in the corner, and several bottles of whisky.

The Ramones were on and full-tilt, which was the first good news of the entire night. He swaggered up to the bar, freezing immediately as something powerful crawled across his skin in warning. It was nearly the same speed as the vibrations of the music, probably overlooked by the everyday fledge. But never by him.

Fucking Christ, the Slayer was here.  _Right under his nose_. The realization nearly made him laugh out loud. What was this girl playing at?

Swerving from the bar, he stepped into the fray proper, eyes scanning the mob of dancers, half of them demon-types who knew well enough to get out of his way.

He froze when he saw her, and immediately wondered how she hadn’t been the very first thing he’d seen in the place. Amidst a bloody cattle herd’s worth of leather and fishnets, she was… well, she was sodding  _glowing_. A worse word was floating in the back of his head, a traitorous leftover from William that didn’t even bear the dignity of an actual thought; he shoved it away and eyed the Slayer with predatorial focus. The girl was dancing right in front of the stage, her bare arms thrown up and her hips swaying to the blaring brilliance that was  _Sheena is a Punk Rocker_. She was wearing some paper-thin floral dress thing, the soft pink nearly fluorescently vibrant in the smoky interior. Even from here he could see she was too thin, and shadows of wounds still haunted her tanned skin. Still, she was looking far cleaner than when he’d seen her last, and apparently a comely face had been hiding beneath the mess. To top it all off, the chit was clearly not wearing a bra, her perky little tits rising in two delicious looking mounds.

She looked like fruit ripe for the picking.

Spike grinned and shoved his way up next to the stage. He could tell by the way the Slayer’s breathing hitched that she knew he’d come up beside her, but she continued to staunchly ignore him otherwise. Narrowing his eyes, he grabbed her roughly by the waist and pulled her close. Her eyes snapped open with a gasp, mouth formed into a breathless ‘o.’

“Found you, Slayer,” he purred, hands running across the curve of her sweaty back. The Slayer was a glistening, glorious mess. A strand of blonde hair had escaped her little updo and drifted down her neck like an invitation. He found himself fixated on it, nearly missing her amused retort.

“No, I found  _you_.”

Spike pulled his eyes back up to her face, knowing he’d contained his surprise poorly. He lifted his pierced brow. “Waiting for me, were you?” He slid a suggestive hand down to cradle her hip, surprised when she didn’t even flinch. “Should’ve just sent out an invitation,” he said casually. “I never miss an opportunity to dance with your kind.”

She laughed at that, some little bell-tinkling sound. “I know.”

Chit apparently knew a lot. Too bloody much. And, in particular, about him. Taking a gamble on Dru’s coherency, he said silkily, “Have it on good authority that you’re out of your time, Slayer.”

She just gave him a noncommittal look, her hands rising up to his shoulders, smooth and hot over his duster. “Do you.”

So, the chit wasn’t going to give him anything. He leaned down and growled low by her ear. She shivered, but to his surprise, slid her arms up around his neck and pulled him closer.

What the hell?

“You really want a vampire so close to your neck, pet?” he murmured, inhaling her scent with threatening vehemence. She was intoxicating, the scent of her powerful blood just below the surface, mixed with something like vanilla, and the salt of her sweat, and… arousal?

The Slayer just quirked her lips in a small, knowing smile when he pulled back to regard her suspiciously. “You’re not going to kill me here, Spike.”

“Oh? And what makes you so bloody sure about that?”

“Because,” she said, in a husky, low voice that stirred his prick almost against his will, “there’s no glory in taking out a Slayer in the middle of the dance floor.” She paused, green eyes glittering as she pressed her hips further against him. Fuck. “And I think you’ll like something else better.”

He swallowed, unable to contain his rapidly swelling stiffy. Her heat was scorching. It was distracting as hell, as was the bead of sweat slowly rolling down her neck to the perfect valley between her tits, which were clearly at attention under the scrap of a dress she was wearing. Christ, this was crossing a line. Sure, he had his fun baiting the chits with innuendo for all the kinds of brassed off it made them, and there was no denying that fighting got him and them hot. But that was just part of the package—there was nothing more arousing than dancing with that kind of death. He’d never seriously considered shagging them, even if it was probably as good as killing them. Mortal enemy and all that. And, rightfully, the Slayers would’ve all fought him tooth and nail if he’d tried to force them. Not a one had encouraged the behavior, too bloody righteous to even tempt soiling their lily-white hats. Well, not a one until this one.

“Don’t know what you think I’d possibly like better than your corpse,” he said roughly, even as his hips thrust traitorously against her.

The Slayer moaned lightly against him, the sound so yearning and  _happy_  that he found himself frozen in sudden indecision. He wanted to drop trou and shag her into the filthy floor. He wanted to sink his fangs into her sweating skin and drain her until she stopped fucking with his worldview. He wanted to shove her away and leg it fast and far from whatever this was.

He pulled her closer.

Bugger.

“It’s only for tonight,” the Slayer murmured lowly as she leaned toward him, hot noise against the shell of his ear.

He lifted a brow in amused disbelief. “What is this, sodding  _Cinderella_?”

She smiled a real smile, something so damningly bright that he thought he might dust in its wake. Had  _he_ made her smile like that? And he thought this little dance couldn’t get more perverse.

“That makes you the prince, you know.”

He stiffened. “This isn’t a fairytale, Slayer. I don’t know who you are and I don’t rightly care, and this whole thing is weird and I’m stopping it right fucking  _now_. Come outside so we can finish this properlike.”

The Slayer didn’t move, except to continue swaying to the music. But then, neither did he. “You’re the one who brought up the comparison,” she said mildly, with great apparent amusement.

“I wasn’t implying  _that_ ,” he managed emphatically. A growl drew down his chest. “Already have a princess, and you’re not it.”

“I’ll never be your princess,” she said softly, with an underlying, hard bite. “Just your queen.”

He stared at her, astounded. The chit had some balls. “What do you want with me, Slayer?” he asked her finally.

Her expression dropped to something so mixed he couldn’t get a good read on it. Mostly it just looked tired. “This is my ‘just in case’.”

Well, that made less sense than Dru often did.

She must’ve seen his annoyed look, because her lips quirked again. “I’m probably screwing up everything, being here. It’s stupidly selfish of me. I know it is.” Her brow furrowed. “But this wasn’t exactly my idea, so I’m taking what I want, just for a minute.”

She didn’t say the obvious. That it was him she wanted. She didn’t need to.

He eyed her silently for a long moment, wary and burningly curious and aroused beyond his control. And that was the whole problem with this little scenario. He’d somehow lost control of it. Well, little miss Slayer wasn’t the only one who could turn the game on its head. He dug his fingers into her hips.

“So you’re the type with a dead man fetish, eh?” He smirked nastily at her. “Come from the future or summat for a bit of Spike rogering? Well, should’ve just said so in the first place, pet. I’ll fuck you blind, if you like. Treat you like the dirty, twisted bitch that you are.” The Slayer flinched and drew back from him, but he grabbed her arms and held her fast and hurting. “Is that what you want? What you’re looking for? If I pound you raw and screaming, will that satisfy whatever itch you’ve got?”

The Slayer jerked back from him with full strength, her expression furious and, oddly, pained. Her voice betrayed none of that weakness though. “Been there, done that,” she bit out.

What the bloody hell did  _that_  mean? He regarded her with narrow, worried mistrust. The bitch had to be lying. He’d never say never to having shagged a Slayer in the future, but to have one seeking him out afterward? And looking at him with… fuck, she looked at him like she cared.

This was… sod it all, this was  _indecent_.

“Think you must have me confused with some other vamp, Slayer. The only thing in store for our future is me watching you scream while my Dru rips up that pretty little body of yours.”

The Slayer swallowed roughly, and he watched the bob of her throat slide up and down. “This was a mistake,” she said hoarsely, looking angry and on the verge of tears. “Stupid of me, to think that you’d be anything like–” She pursed her lips closed tightly and gave him a venomous, imperial look. “Just forget you ever saw me. I’ll try and do the same.”

Then, to his complete shock, her fury fell away to something that looked suspiciously like grief, and she fleetingly cupped his cheek with the palm of her hand. “Goodbye, Spike.”

He gaped at her for half a moment before recovering. She thought she was going to get away that easily? Not bloody likely! He caught her arm as she stepped away. “No more games. Tell me how you think you know me, Slayer.”

She shrugged. “Subway, remember? I fell on you? You were a complete jackass?”

He snarled and tightened his grip. “Not in the mood, you coy bitch.”

The Slayer wrenched her arm away, her expression cold again. “Just let it go. Your ‘good authority’ is right. I don’t belong here and I’m not staying.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “So I do know you in the future then.”

“You don’t know me at all,” she said quietly. “Whoever I knew… he wasn’t you.” Some kind of epiphanal light seemed to brighten her eyes and she said again, more firmly, “He wasn’t you.”

The regret in her voice stunned him—as did her very disturbing use of the past tense—and she used it to slip away into the crowd. He snarled and whirled toward where she disappeared, striding for the exit. Only for one night, she said? He’d make it one night, all right. She could start the new day as a cooling corpse tied up at his Dru’s feet.

 

***

 

Spike caught up to her just outside the back entrance, in some super gross alley that reeked of pee and garbage. There were several pairs of people scattered around, half dressed and fucking carelessly against the brick wall. They didn't even look at her as she passed.

“Oi! Slayer!”

Of course he wouldn’t actually let her go. This  _was_  Spike, after all. Except not, her brain reminded her. This demon with his face had none of Spike’s humanity. Humanity that he’d had even from the start in Sunnydale, she now realized… which unsettled her immensely. Had caring for a sick Drusilla already softened him so much by the time he’d come her way? 

Sighing, Buffy turned to face him, only to receive a sharp punch to the chin that sent her stumbling back. Son of a bitch. Recovering herself, she lifted her fists defensively. “Leave me alone, Spike.”

Spike pretended to casually survey his nail polish from a few steps away, before looking up with a feral grin, in full game face. “No.”

She glared at him. “Go. Away.”

Spike just prowled toward her, one step forward for every step she took back. “Way I see it,” he drawled, “if you’re from the future, you probably have a bunch of barmy rules about changing the past. Including summat major like, say, murdering yours truly.” He held her eyes unblinkingly, with a knowing smirk. “While I,” he continued smoothly, “don’t actually give a flying fuck where or when you’re from. Which works out just nicely in my favor, don’t you think?”

Buffy barely kept herself from laughing out loud. “Your luck has never been so great around me, Spike. Go home to your crazy mistress of death.”

He snarled. “Watch your gob, Slayer.”

“Oh, please. That was practically a compliment.” She raised a brow. “I could’ve called her ‘Miss Insano-ho’, or ‘tall, dark, and batshit’. But I didn’t.”

Spike stared at her, looking incredibly torn between a desire to immediately rip out her throat or verbally defend his girlfriend’s honor before beating her senseless.

It was hardly a surprise when he leapt toward her with murder in his eyes.

 

***

 

The first time the Slayer’s fist connected with his face, Spike knew she’d fought him before. This bird saw his movements almost before he made them—part of some familiar dance he didn’t even know the tune for and yet couldn’t help but step to anyway. What had Dru called the girl? Sunshine? Christ, she hadn’t been wrong. This Slayer was like the sun, a deadly mass of gravitational pull; he couldn’t escape her. Every blow they exchanged was burning him... from the pleasure of such a worthy opponent, sure, but something else, too—something with far more dangerous implications.

The Slayer was enjoying it, as well. There was a slight smile hovering on her serious face, lingering in those green doe-eyes of hers. He was distracted by them—too distracted. An unforgiving kick sent him flying into the alley wall.

He heard the pounding of her fleeing footsteps before he even rose. Bollocks. What was it with this Slayer and pulling a runner? Straightening his duster, he caught the edges of her running form, and followed.

 

***

 

Buffy ran the entire way back, having no idea how to use the subway system (and pretty sure she’d need money she didn’t have). And, with her luck, she’d have ended up in Albuquerque or something.

Every once in while, she thought she felt the telltale tingling of Spike, but the feeling was never strong enough for her to be sure. If he was following her, he was doing a good job of keeping his distance. Her only solution was to run faster, sandals slapping on the uneven sidewalk as she watched street signs and firmly ignored the other city-goers, who similarly firmly ignored her.

 

***

 

Why the hell was the chit still running? They’d passed about a half dozen underground entrances already. If she was looking to lose him, she was doing the most piss-poor job possible.

And then it struck him. This Slayer didn’t know the city. Wherever she’d been dumped from apparently hadn’t been the Big bloody Apple. Not that it was such a surprise, in retrospect. She’d been dirt filthy, and not the kind that festered in an urban sprawl.

 _This wasn’t exactly my idea_ , she’d said. Sounded more and more like she’d gotten transported back and sideways by mistake.

Unease rose in him as he followed the Slayer’s sprinting form from a careful distance. What did it mean that—of all creatures for her to mistakenly land on—she’d landed on him?

 

***

 

Buffy arrived back at the Soho factory without incident. Well, if she didn’t count the entire CBGB’s nightmare as an incident. Nope, it had definitely been in the ‘monumental, disastrous mistake’ category, paired right with ‘see how many more scars the Buffy heart can handle’. Probably with some bonus horrible timeline consequences thrown in just for her.

Four of the six factory roommates were home when she arrived, all clustered in the living room watching MASH reruns on their hulking cathode TV. Val was sprawled on one end of the living room couch, with her feet on Steve’s lap; Andrea was cross-legged on the floor near the screen (she seemed to have some kind of addiction to animal print, and her leggings today were of the zebra variety), half-reading a magazine as she reached up and smacked the TV when the picture rolled; and Julian was sitting on the armchair in his ragged cut-off jeans, providing commentary for the screen as he ran a disheveled hand through a shock of red hair.

“Shit, Hot Lips, cave his head in!”

Val rose, shaking her head as she grabbed her cigarettes. “Slimy bastard. So glad Linville’s gone next season.” A pause. “Heading out for a smoke. Anyone want in?” She caught sight of Buffy and gave a small smile. “Hey, girl. Take my spot for a few if you want.”

“Sure.”

Buffy settled on the couch, trying very hard to pay attention to the TV, even though she had no idea what was going on besides that the show was about some medical team in Vietnam. Or was it Korea? She had a vague memory of her mom talking about it every once in a while, but only ever in passing. Still, it was easier to stare at the screen than to think about Spike.

Val came back in from smoking, a puzzled expression on her face. “Buffy, you know any hot punk types?”

Okay, so not thinking about Spike was apparently not an option.

“Got one downstairs looking for you. White hair? British?”

 _Shit_. She leapt off the couch. “He’s here?”

Val nodded, her expression wary. “That the guy?”

Buffy looked at her blankly. “Guy?”

“You know, the ex who gave you that black eye.”

“Oh.” Right. The supposed reason she was hiding out in an illegal Soho factory apartment. A large part of her was tempted to say ‘yes,’ but she knew it was a stupid, kneejerk reaction. It would only likely put her new apartment mates in more danger. “No.”  _Different demon, actually._  “But this guy is… not a good guy. Stay away from him, okay?”

Val stared at her as she headed toward the stairs. “So where the hell are you going then?”

“To get him to leave.”

 

***

 

Spike didn’t have to wait long once he’d chatted up the girl having a smoke. The Slayer came out with fury in her eyes. Fucking hell, the woman had a stare that could freeze fire. He felt himself grow painfully harder in his jeans.

“Didn’t take you for the artsy type, Slayer,” he said casually, leaning against some old loading dock.

She stomped up to him, fists clenched, rage spilling off her like some feisty little Valkyrie. “If you hurt anyone here, I will personally send you to hell, Spike. You got that?”

He chuckled. “No need to get your knickers in a twist. I’m not here for your chums.” He straightened, pointedly adjusting the bulge in his pants, and watched her gaze almost instinctually flick to it and away. A delicious blush rose in her cheeks. “I’m here for you.”

She clenched her fists again in what seemed be an effort not to knock him a good one. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not staying. We’ve already discussed this. What part of ‘go away’ are you not getting?”

“Apparently you and I disagree on the basic principle, luv.”

The endearment slipped out almost without thought. It was mostly plastered in snark, but the Slayer flinched anyway. Interesting.

“I’m going back inside,” she said after a minute, firm and pale.

Spike just raised a brow. “You do that.”

She blinked. “You’re not… you’re not going to try and stop me?”

He clenched his jaw. “No.” Somewhere between Houston and Mercer Street, he’d stopped liking the idea of dragging her back for Dru. His dark princess was going to be a horrorshow for a bit, but he’d just have to feed her whatever other Slayer was about and hope it’d suffice. Another month or two, and he’d take his girl on a summer holiday to the Orient and have done with it. New girl’d be an easy—if boring—catch, anyhow. This Slayer, this fiery seasoned warrior who knew him some-bloody-how, was going to be his and his alone. Preferably after he got a bit more information from her full little mouth. “Not tonight.”

The Slayer just looked at him, her expression unreadable. “What makes you think you’re going to get another chance?”

He leveled a hard look at her. “Slayer, do you take me for dim? Unless you’ve got a pre-arranged pick-up, seems like you’re not quite able to leave. Else you would’ve done it by now.”

That earned him a frown, confirming his suspicions better than words. The Slayer turned stiffly back to the factory door. “Goodbye, Spike.”

“See you tomorrow, Slayer.”


	6. Seeking Council

It took Buffy getting to the point of being ready to call the Council to realize she had no actual idea how to reach them. It wasn’t like they were listed in the New York phone book and the internet, with its handy Ask Jeeves existence, was more than a decade away. Maybe Giles… but no. She didn’t even know if her Watcher was even a Watcher yet. He could still be a footloose and fancy-free demon-summoning delinquent.

And she was already up to her ears in unwanted demons. One, in particular. Spike had been haunting the outside of the Soho factory for four nights running, the burning tip of his cigarette clearly visible even several floors up. She found the ruins of matches during the day by his haunting spots and realized, with a strange pang, that his silver lighter wasn’t apparently yet in the picture. It bothered her in a way she couldn’t quite identify. After Sunnydale, that lighter was one of two pieces of him she had left—the other a permanent scar on her left hand. Both had gone into Lloyd’s cave with her, though the lighter now lay abandoned with her backpack in 2003.

On the fifth night of Spike playing night watchman outside her temporary home (that, at least, was familiar), Buffy sighed and tucked a newly carved stake into her waistband (someone’s abandoned chair was now lacking several of its legs), and headed outside.

Spike’s head snapped up at her arrival, and he flicked away his cigarette with a grin. “Slayer. Fancy meeting you here.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I need your help.”

That seemed to throw him for a loop. He blinked at her, his blue eyes looking incredibly stark against the dark eyeliner. “Come again?”

“I. Need. Your. Help.”

He scowled at her. “I’m not deaf, Slayer. Heard you the first time.” His expression turned amused. “Just not sure why in the bloody hell you think I’d help you. Here to kill you, remember?”

“And you’re doing great, really,” Buffy said dryly.

He narrowed his eyes. “Well, some little Slayer’s been hiding herself away where big bad vampires can’t reach her. Not exactly my fault.”

Buffy just stared at him for a long moment. It was… well, it was weirdly similar to their initial encounters in Sunnydale, where he’d had so many chances to kill her and… hadn’t. Spike, as he’d so recently reminded her, wasn’t stupid. Sure, he’d probably drain her in two seconds flat given an opening, but he wasn’t exactly trying that hard. The question was  _why_.

Unable to keep from tempting fate by giving evil demons terribly useful ideas, she said softly, “Other demons don’t need an invite. Or humans, for that matter. And it’s not like you couldn’t just set the factory on fire and chase me out.”

Now it was Spike’s turn to stare, unreadable and still. Finally, his nostrils flared and he glanced away, looking down the street. “Told you, this is between you and me.”

Buffy frowned in confusion for a moment, before it hit her. Outsiders going into the factory would almost surely attack her roommates. And he’d sort of said he wasn’t going to do that. Something warm trickled into her chest as she eyed the uncomfortable vampire in front of her. God, maybe he wasn’t as different from the Spike she knew as she’d thought.

And how dangerous a realization that was.

Spike growled slightly under her scrutiny and took a threatening step forward, moving into the halo of an overhead light. Buffy gasped instinctively.

“Spike, your face…”

Something had raked vicious claws across his cheekbones, narrowly missing his eyes. The red and painful-looking lines extended down his throat and disappeared behind his duster, where she suspected plenty more lay in hiding.

“Are you okay?”

Spike furrowed his brow, looking startled, then bemused and angry in turn. “Am I  _okay_? Why the fuck do you care if I’m okay, Slayer? Here to kill you, drain you dry, all that rot.”

Buffy swallowed at her slip and swept a hand back to the stake now comfortingly in her waistband where it belonged. “I’m well aware,” she said with forced coldness. “You’re an evil, remorseless killer.”

His anger faded to a smirk. “And don’t you forget it.”

The scary part was, for a moment, she had. Her instincts had shifted drastically since the year with the First. All she could see in this Spike’s wounds was her Spike, hanging in the First’s cave, looking at her like she was god and heaven all in one.

The heat of sudden tears threatened behind her eyelids and Buffy lifted her chin, daring them to coalesce, as she stared rigidly at the demon who would someday be the man she loved. Who would someday protect her sister’s identity with his life. Who would someday sacrifice himself for the world… and leave her alone. Maybe it was better if–

“It was Dru, alright?”

Buffy snapped out of her thoughts. “Huh?”

Spike shrugged, fiddling with a cigarette and not looking at her. “My sire. She's in a state. Pixies have been telling her all sorts of rot..”

He didn’t elaborate, but Buffy didn’t really need him to. The way his eyes flicked to hers was telling enough. “She’s angry that I’m here.”

Spike’s jaw clenched. “Seems to be about the gist of it.”

“But why would she…” Buffy felt her face go slack in understanding. “She doesn’t like that you haven’t killed me yet.”

Spike just grunted at her. “Has some barmy idea in her head that you and I–” He halted his words abruptly and turned away, lighting a cigarette with single-minded determination.

A childishly smug smile threatened. So Miss Crazy Pants thought Buffy could take away her boy-toy even now, did she?  _And I probably could_ , she thought with a certain level of pride. Heck, Spike was already in obsessive mode and he clearly found her attractive. It wasn’t too far a reach from there to make him actually care about her.

... Which she wasn’t going to do, for a whole slew of reasons that started with ‘she was stuck in the wrong decade’ and ended on ‘Spike is still an evil serial killer.’

“How many people have you killed since we met?” she asked sharply.

Spike turned to her with a raised brow. She watched his eyes half close in thought. Oh god, he was  _counting_. Her stupid, romance-novel thoughts came to a crashing halt. “Seven humans, a minion, and a couple other demons,” he said finally, with great amusement.

“Right.”

“Keeping track, eh?”

“Just reminding myself what you are.”

He chuckled, shifting into game face as he grinned through fangs. “Happy to give you a refresher anytime, Slayer.”

She shook her head and straightened her shoulders. “I need your help first.”

Spike shifted back to his human guise, looking exasperated. “What part of ‘mortal enemy trying to kill you’ are you just not getting?”

She wasn’t about to point out that he hadn’t actually tried to kill her once during their conversation. “Apparently the same part you weren’t getting about ‘leave me alone’.”

He laughed in delight, in the low, familiar rumble she’d desperately missed. “Touché, luv.” He eyed her warily. “So what exactly is it you’re wanting?”

“I need to know where Nikki Wood’s Watcher lives.”

His brow rose. “That so. And you think yours truly knows the place?”

Buffy snorted. “Of course you do. You’re a vamp who does his research.”

Predictably, Spike preened at that, looking both pleased and proud. “Say I do know then. Still doesn’t tell me why you think I give a fig about helping you out.”

She sighed. It was apparently too much to hope he’d help her out of curiosity alone. It had been a tiny hope, anyway—she remembered very clearly Spike’s many monetary extortions after the chip. Even then, he hadn’t been willing to give an inch. “I don’t expect you to ‘give a fig’,” she said steadily, meeting his eyes. “I’m willing to make a trade.”

 

***

 

Make a trade? Spike eyed the Slayer dubiously. Chit hadn’t had so much as two sticks to rub together when she’d made her grand entrance on his head. What the hell did she think she could offer? Then he saw her nervously lick her lips and froze. Surely she didn’t mean…

He chuckled lowly. “Think awful highly of that cunt of yours, Slayer.”

A bright blush bloomed on her cheeks, but she didn’t back down. Her hard gaze continued to hold his. “It’s the only thing I have,” she said tightly. “And I know it’s nothing you’ve had before.”

Well, she had him there. Still, something unpleasant was swirling in his gut about this Slayer being so desperate that she’d whore herself out for a bit of information. “You seemed eager enough to give it for free the other night,” he said casually, watching her stiffen.

“You know what,” she bit out, all spitting rage again, embarrassment coating her voice in every syllable. “Forget it.”

Christ, she was a glorious little wild cat. Likely in the sack, too. The chit was already clutching a stake behind her back—there was no doubt she’d keep up the pose if she actually meant to get  _in flagrante delicto_  with a bloody Slayer killer. Hell, shagging her was likely to be every bit as dangerous as any other kind of fight.

It worried him a bit just how tempted he was to take her up on the offer. But that seemed like just the thing Dru had been on the warpath about and he could near guarantee she’d outright try to kill him if he came home reeking of Slayer cunt.

Spike froze. Since when had Dru’s fury been his impetus for being faithful? His monogamy wasn’t supposed to have sod all to do with getting caught like an errant schoolboy. Dru was his eternal love, his beautiful, dark, currently-more-brassed-than-a-wet-hen, evil goddess.

He grimaced, and then winced as the motion tugged the evidence of his sire’s claws. Fucking hell. He’d promised Dru that all the Slayer would get from him was a real nice relationship with the grim ferryman, and here he was standing and nearly making nice with her instead. But the way she looked at him…

“Don’t want your body, Slayer,” he said finally, harshly, and watched her expression fall into a tight mask, refusing to show hurt at his rejection. Girl’d learned to do that the hard way, he guessed. He was tempted for a moment to leave it at that, but then he had the disturbing thought that she might try and offer some other demon the same, and saw red. Any tosser stupid enough to get propositioned was going to die a painful death. “I’ll take summat else, though,” he said shortly.

The Slayer eyed him warily. “What do you want?”

“To know when you’re from, for starters.”

Her mouth quirked. “Thought you didn’t care when or where I was from.”

He waved off her words dismissively. “That was when I was just trying to off you. Seem to have a delay of game with this whole helping bit, don’t we?” Her face grew inexplicably soft, to his baffled irritation. “ _What_?”

But the Slayer just shook her head and said simply, “I can’t tell you when I’m from.”

He shrugged. “Then I want to know how you know me.” He gave her a hard look. “And that’s it. I get an answer or you aren’t getting the Watcher’s address.” He watched the Slayer nibble her lower lip in thought. “And don’t give me any of that ‘I don’t know you’ rubbish. We both know it’s a load of codswallop.”

The Slayer exhaled noisily. “Fine,” she said at last. “We met because you sought me out to kill me. Pretty much like now.”

“Didn’t pan out then, apparently.” Unbidden, Dru’s words flitted through him.  _You never kill her._

The Slayer shrugged. “Extenuating circumstances.” She waved her arms slightly in frustration, looking exhausted and resigned. “God, I’ve probably majorly screwed up everything.”

He felt the most awful desire to comfort her. Bloody hell. “Nah, pet. If I see some bittier version of you, guarantee you I’ll try and do her just the same.”

She laughed, a strikingly pleasant sound. “That really shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.”

He grinned at her. “So. Off to see the Watcher, then?”

 

***

 

In true Spike fashion, he refused to simply give her the address and be on his way. Instead, he decided to personally escort her, inevitably including his own two cents the entire way.

“You’re off your bird, you know,” he told her as they walked briskly down the street. It was such a familiar conversation and feeling that she could almost pretend she was back in 2003 with her Spike. Then she glanced over at him, with his pierced eyebrow and eyeliner and ripped shirt, and the illusion was ruined.

“You really think the Council of Wankers is going to help you, Slayer?”

Buffy shrugged. “I don’t see why not. They’re not bad. I mean, one of the head honchos in my time was an asshole, but I doubt he’s in charge right now.”

Spike just looked at her with a patronizing lilt to his mouth. “Why exactly would they send you back to who knows when?”

“Because I’m the Slayer? Sort of needed in my time?” Well, it wasn’t really true, but no one in 1977 needed to know that. She had a brief idea of telling Spike that there were now thousands of Slayers in her time, and watching his jaw drop. The thought made her bite down on a smile.

Spike arched a brow. “But it’s not your time yet. Far as your Council is concerned, they just got a free Slayer in the bag until you catch up to your own year.” He eyed her carefully. “You live long enough and they might actually figure out if Slayers age normal-like or not. And if you don’t, well, won’t matter, will it? New Slayer’ll get Called and it’ll all be dandy anyhow.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Apparently know more than you, Slayer.”

Buffy gave him a hard look, all the brusqueness that had been formed and refined in the last few years finding its way to the surface. “Spike, I’ve taken down the original evil and a hell god and a hundred different kinds of demons I can’t even begin to name. Believe me, the Watchers Council should be afraid of  _me_.” At Spike’s stunned look, she arched a brow. “And why do you even care?”

He glared at her. “I don’t.”

“Great. Glad we got that settled.”

Spike scowled and firmly ignored her after that, cutting a striking, dark figure in his duster as he led her down the sketchy streets of some New York neighborhood.

When she got back to her own time, would Spike—if she could find him, if he still existed—remember this? Had she really been thrown into the same past, or had some weirdness with branching realities now taken place? And if she got back to the future (god, wouldn’t a Delorean be handy about now…), would her visit here have changed the future at all?

Maybe, if she was very, very lucky, she might have an actual vampire waiting for her there, instead of ash at the bottom of a hellmouth. Maybe, if Spike remembered this, and knew that she’d sought him out in 1977… maybe it would mean something. But then, maybe it would just make things worse, too. She didn’t trust her younger self to be kind.

Holding back the urge to touch the soft leather of Spike’s duster only mere inches from her—to touch  _him_ —Buffy tucked her hands into each other and followed Spike into some semi-respectable apartment building.

Spike glanced back at her as they entered. “Last chance, Slayer. Wankers get their claws in you, they aren’t likely to let go.”

He probably wasn’t wrong. And how dangerous it was to think that—even now, as an evil vampire, as her enemy—he seemed to care, despite his assertions otherwise. She nodded, saying the only thing she could possibly say. “I don’t belong here, Spike.”

He gave her an unreadable look, then shrugged and started up the stairs. “Your funeral.”

She followed with a grimace.  _It wouldn’t be the first time._


	7. Empty Places

Spike knew before the Slayer even knocked on the Watcher’s flat door that no one was home. Still, he stayed carefully out of direct sight and let her knock twice, then watched her shoulders slump.

With obviously forced steadiness, she said, “I guess I’ll try again later.”

“Won’t do any good, Slayer. Budge over.” When the Slayer moved to the side, he threw a hard shoulder into the door until it cracked.

“Spike! What…” Her voice trailed off when he swung open the door and calmly stepped past the threshold. “You’ve been invited in here?”

He threw her a short grin, peering around the flat. “No.” As he suspected, the whole lot was cleared out. Just dents in the carpet as remains of the furniture, and not a box or knick-knack to be found.

The Slayer hesitantly stepped in behind him, flicking on the entry light. He watched her scan the place. “Oh.”

Spike shrugged, poking around the empty kitchen to the right, which had fallen victim to the post-war open floor plan rubbish (bloody weird fashion craze, building a home with half the interior walls missing). Cabinet doors were half-open and drawers askew on their railings—sloppy for a Watcher type. Bloke must’ve cleared out in a hurry. “Guessing he took the sprog and headed for greener pastures. Dangerous business to stay in the Slayer’s territory with that kind of revenge opportunity handy.”

“Yeah.”

He turned back and spied the Slayer sliding down the wall near the door in a half crouch, looking weary and resigned. “Slayer?”

She looked up at him, her mouth lifting into a humorless half smile. “I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t make it back. But, hey, Dawn’s taken care of and the scythe is safe. Just didn’t really think I’d be back in  _time_  first instead of dead right away, but tomato, tomahto, you know?” Then she shrugged, not waiting for an answer. “Guess it doesn’t matter. You filled your end of the trade. Did you want to fight now?”

Spike fixed her with a narrow stare, her words igniting a strange anger in his veins—even if half of them didn’t make a sodding bit of sense. He knew he’d gotten the important bits. Namely that the Slayer—who’d so far done about everything to avoid fighting him—was now outright making a proposition for it. “Not that I’m not chuffed about the eager lease on death you seem to have picked up in the last five seconds, but you can’t tell me you’re giving up on getting back to the arse end of whenever just like that.”

She shrugged again, though something hard had started glittering in her eyes. “So what if I am.”

“Then I’d have to take you for a coward. And I’ve never met one of your types that was one of those.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “For Chrissake, I’m sure the Wankers Council isn’t the only one that can get you back to your time.”

The Slayer eyed him with sudden, infuriating humor. “Are you comforting me? You, the vampire who intends to kill me before I can leave anyway?”

He stilled. Yes, what the bloody hell  _was_  he doing? The bitch was making a damningly awful riot of his insides. Swallowing down his unease, he fixed her with a cold smirk. “Right. Never mind. Don’t care a whit, matter of fact.” He glanced around the living room, trying to ignore the niggling sense of dissatisfaction at coming to the end of dancing with this particular Slayer. “It’s a bit of close quarters in here, but I won’t say no to trashing a Council Wanker’s flat. Come on then, Slayer, on your feet. Let’s have this done.”

Some kind of dark affection was in her eyes as she rose to a stand. “Just so you know… if I was going to pick my fight to the death, well, it would always be with you.”

He was to her in a moment, pinning her arms hard against the drywall as he slid into his demon guise. Her nipples were hard points pressed against his chest, the rest of her tight little body forming against him like it belonged. Fuck. “Lucky for you then,” he growled, “it is.”

The Slayer just smiled a bit crookedly at him. “Lucky,” she echoed. Then she raised her leg and kneed him sharply in the gut.

He stumbled back, his mouth forming a true grin. “Now this is more like it!”

He got a sharp, angry laugh in return. Ah, so that was it. The chit wasn’t itching to die just yet—she was brassed off. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her tonight then, if he could help it; just have a bit of fun.

He feinted to the side and then swept forward, landing a punishing blow to her shoulder that sent her flying back into the drywall. She left a large hole as she pulled herself out of it. “Dropping your shoulder, luv.”

The Slayer darted around him, blocking several more blows while she attempted a couple of her own. “And you always lead with your left,” she grunted, a fist finding purchase in his ribs. Fuck, that hurt.

There was no doubt he was at a disadvantage, with this Slayer apparently knowing most of his moves and him not having had any real chance to study hers. Still, wasn’t like he’d bested two Slayers by being bloody predictable. With a grin, he switched to his right side as lead and watched her startle.

“Oh, come on,” he said in disappointment as she barely managed to block a hard kick, “can’t tell me I never tried this in your time.”

“Didn’t need to,” was her oddly soft reply.

“That green, were you? Not sure how you’re still standing then.” He lashed out and barely missed the side of her face. She whirled and caught him in the back for it, sending him flying into the kitchen island. Christ, those little drawer knobs hurt.

“No,” was her panting reply as she shifted into a defensive stance. “It’s just… you’d been on my left for a long time.”

He gaped at her as he rose to a sweeping stand, face shifting back to his human guise in disbelief. Now that was just bloody insulting. Not only was it bad enough that in the future he’d somehow failed in killing her, shagged her,  _and_  had her still wanting him around, but now he’d supposedly turned white hat? “God, Slayer. Think I have to second you—whoever you knew was sure as fuck not me.”

Something hard and broken came into her face, her long blonde hair falling down around her face in delicious disarray. “I know.” She flung herself forward at him again.

He dodged her blow and caught her on the edge of her hip. “Can see why this bloke of yours was so buggered though,” he added conversationally as they grappled roughly into the wall, nearly falling through the crumbling sheetrock.

Her eyes were fierce as she broke his momentary hold and kicked him away. “Oh?”

“Hot little firecracker like you?” He grinned and swept a hand down his obvious erection. “Hardest I’ve ever been fighting a Slayer.”

She swallowed roughly as she swung toward his face with a mean-looking right hook. “You’re a pig.” The words sounded routine and strangely venomless, like she’d worn them out from use.

He grinned as he blocked her. “Well, pet, seems you’re rolling in the mud right with me.” He managed to capture her wrists momentarily, pulling her close as he whispered, “I can smell how dirty you want to be.”

The tactic, for all its satisfaction, earned him another kick to the gut, and he released her with a grunt. Still, the pain just made him harder, if it was bloody possible. Christ, this was almost embarrassing. At this rate, he was going to come in his pants before they were done.

The Slayer glared at him and drew her stake, her expression growing cold and determined. He avoided the sharp bit of wood with a snarl, unable to keep away a wash of panic at the message of finality that came with it. He knew it then, whether he liked it or not: this couldn’t be their last dance—he wasn’t near done with her yet.

Nostrils flaring, he drew himself up tensely. “Do we really need weapons for this, Slayer?”

To his surprise, she froze, green eyes going wide. Then a strange, mysterious smile took her mouth and she licked her lips, sensually running her free hand down her torso and resting it suggestively on her upper thigh. “I just like them,” she said slowly. “They make me feel all womanly.” Then she flat-out grinned, tossing the stake away and leaping at him in one smooth motion.

He couldn’t help but laugh in delight as they exchanged a set of hard blows. “You’re something else, Slayer.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Sodding hell, where had this girl come from? She was a frighteningly perfect opponent; wit and beauty and deadly power in a tiny package. He found himself unable to keep his eyes from the way her lower lip jutted out in concentration. The way her pert little breasts stood to attention as she twisted to drive a hard elbow into him. The way her arse swelled beneath her jeans as she rolled away from his hard lunge. The way her gaze was fixed unerringly on him, not just in study, but as if he might disappear before her eyes at any moment.

God, he should rip her bloody throat out. He should make those pouting pink lips pale and cold and leave her trussed up as a warning to the next time-travelling Slayer. He should–

Oh, sod it.

He growled, pulling her roughly against him at the next opportunity, and smashed his lips to hers.


	8. Spin Me Right Round

Buffy was almost not surprised at all when Spike kissed her. Sex and violence—that had been them for years and him for possibly forever.

She responded. She couldn’t help it. All of her misgivings and that small, rational voice that told her to  _punch him silly for daring to act in place of her Spike_  fled—suddenly so far out of the city they were five zip codes away—when his familiar lips touched hers. Lips she’d dreamt of so many times since Sunnydale, knowing all the ways they could touch her and drive her thankfully out of her mind.

Except… Spike had never kissed her like this before. This kissing was full of denial and anger, as if he was trying to drown his every desire in her until it stopped existing. She returned his kisses with a fierce, giving passion that encouraged gentleness (god, there’d been so little of that between them before), but all of it was rebutted for painfully hard attacks and bites that were as unyielding as they were desperate. It was, she realized, the exact reversal of their positions after her resurrection. He was obviously confused by her and afraid of what she represented (as if she could even tell him—she wasn’t sure herself). Thankfully, at least, he didn’t seem able to pull away from her.

He  _couldn’t_  pull away from her—she couldn’t let him. Not now, when her body was blaring in surround sound how much it needed him after so long, how much it craved his touch in this horrible joke that her quest to get him back had become. So what if he wasn't the exact Spike she wanted? So what if he was evil and currently in love with Drusilla and had no idea about the jetliner of baggage between them in the future? The luck of Buffy Summers had always been of the twisted, ‘die and then get resurrected and then almost have the world end—again—but not before it kills the man you’ve finally let yourself love’ variety, and it didn't seem to be changing anytime soon, so she was going to take the little bits of pleasure as they came around.

She wound her arms tightly around Spike’s neck, not letting him retreat. Not that he was trying. His arms were banded equally possessively around her waist, sliding down to cup her ass and running up her ribcage to tease the underside of her breasts as his lips devoured hers. Groping blindly, they stumbled into the nearest wall, and Buffy heard the sheetrock crack behind her. Oh boy, they were going to destroy the entire apartment at this rate. She hoped Nikki’s Watcher had already gotten his security deposit back.

“Fuck,” Spike muttered, drawing away from her mouth. His eyes were dark and turmoiled as he gazed at her. “What are you  _doing_  to me, Slayer?”

“You started it,” she said breathlessly, clutching at his duster.

His expression looked indignant then amused. His fingers traced her hip almost thoughtlessly. “Pretty sure I was the one who got fallen on.  _You_  started it.”

Buffy glared at him for a long moment before sighing. “Fine,” she allowed, “I started it.”

He chuckled at her reluctant admission, bending so that his mouth was a centimeter from hers, taking in her breath as she exhaled. “It about kills you to concede much of anything, doesn’t it, pet?”

She swallowed heavily, trembling as he pushed relentlessly into her boundaries, a predator downing his prey. “It’s not my strong suit.”

“A Slayer thing,” he murmured. “You chits are built to dominate.” His voice grew huskier. “Built to fight. Built to dole out delicious death to all the dark beasties that go bump in the night.” He watched her intently, pressing his erection into her stomach, and she couldn’t help but gasp at the beautiful familiarity of it. “It’s bloody intoxicating.”

Before she could even think of how to reply, he captured her lips again, with such force that she slammed backwards into the wall.

“Going to have you,” she heard him growl as his lips slid down to her jawline, nipping and laving every inch with his tongue. She gasped and tilted her head back as pleasure arced down to her toes. “Bloody sunshine, are you? Burn you out, then. Whatever the fuck this is. Burn it out.”

A chill line of fear ran through her. “No. No burning,” she whispered, knowing that her voice was shaking. “Not again.”

Spike’s brow furrowed and he paused to look up at her in confusion. Buffy captured his mouth back in hers with sudden, frenzied need, shoving at his duster until he shrugged it off, and then tugging at his belt buckle. She needed to see him, all of his pale, beautifully sculpted body. Needed to see that he wasn’t dust.  _God, no more burning._

 

***

 

Something had flipped a switch in the Slayer. She’d gone from trying to gentle his rough overtures to giving him a run for his money. Her slender hands had snuck under his shirt, fingers digging into his back with just the right kind of pain before sliding down to his belt. And god but she was warm, her skin flushed and slick with a light sheen of sweat from their fighting. He couldn’t help but taste her, running his tongue down along her deceptively fragile looking collarbone.

She made a kind of helpless whimper, the kind of sound that would’ve made his prick even harder, if there was any harder to be had. Which there bloody well wasn’t.

Between her attacking his trousers and him flinging off her thin little t-shirt, they ended up taking out a couple more of the few remaining walls in the flat, and tumbled eventually to the carpet, him with his mouth greedily sucking at her rosy little tits and her placing frantic kisses on his neck, biting with blunt teeth in a way that she had to know was just fucking asking for it.

And he was drowning in her responsiveness. Her little moans and sighs and the shudders of her breath when he hit a particularly sensitive spot were enough to drive him out of his head. Dru never– Christ, none of that. He couldn’t think of his sire right now. Couldn’t think of everything he was betraying, or stop to wonder why his hellishly human heart—which he kept firmly locked and hidden (not that it had ever stopped the bugger from making its presence known)—wasn’t having a hissyfit over this whole situation.

He tugged off the Slayer’s jeans with a growl, groaning as he slid down her lithe little body and got a deep lungful of her released arousal. God, what a gorgeous, twisted angel of death she was, turned on to dripping by a demon. Turned on by him.

She was wearing a hideous pair of too-large knickers—borrowed, no doubt—which he gladly ripped to shreds before sinking his face down to her luscious curls, a few shades darker than her hair. A natural blonde then, he thought in surprise. Well, that made one of them then. Chuckling slightly, he spread apart her legs at the knees and examined her pink folds, all of them glistening with her want.

“God, Slayer, you have a pretty cunt.”

“Oh, unh.” She writhed below him. “Spike…”

“Yeah?” When she didn’t reply, he gave her a long lick to spur her on.

“Oh– ah, god, yes,” was the Slayer’s strained reply, her fingers burying themselves into his teased up curls. “Please. I need you… need you so much.”

Her breathless, trembling voice snapped all of his restraint. Snarling, he dove down into her curls, his tongue snaking down to explore her folds and dip into her cunt, making her whimper and thrash. Fuck, but she tasted divine. Rich and tangy and juicy as a peach. He growled hungrily against her clit, and she cried out with the vibrations, coming entirely undone as he sucked at her, sending two fingers to plunge in her tight little pussy.

It was his own undoing, watching her tremble into orgasm and feeling warningly strong Slayer muscles tighten around his fingers. He’d thought the Slayer had glowed on the dance floor, but it was a pale comparison to how she looked when she came.

Sodding hell.

He rose up her body, licking his fingers with a groan. His eyes widened when she stole them from him to place in her own mouth, her tongue eagerly swirling around the pads of his fingers, her lust-glazed eyes glued to his.

“Bloody torturous bitch,” he snarled, and plunged deep into her cunt.

They both froze for a moment, shocked, before he recovered himself and began pumping his hips. She was so hot and wet, like he’d stuck his dick in bathwater, but the walls surrounding him were clenching his cock into oblivion as he ruthlessly thrust into her.

“I missed you,” she was whispering in between violent kisses. “Missed you. Missed you. Missed you.”

He fucked her harder, unable to help the surge of jealousy at his apparent future self. No sodding wonder he’d been led around by his prick by this Slayer in the future—this was a cunt probably worth doing it for.

When she tumbled into another orgasm below him, mewling and milking his cock with complete abandon, he fell over the edge with her, gasping for unneeded air as he spilled himself into her pussy and lights set off a fireworks show behind his eyes.

When clarity leaked into his dimmed brain a minute later, he realized he was putting his full weight on the panting Slayer below him, but she wasn’t complaining. In fact, her hands were making small circles against the muscles of his back, her face looking sated and slightly sad, her mouth swollen and red from his kisses.

“Slayer,” he began, and then trailed off when questioning green eyes met his gaze. Fuck, he didn’t even know what to say to this. This Slayer had everything twisted and backwards and burned all to hell. And, all at once, it bothered him that he didn’t even know who she was.

“What’s your name, pet?”

She looked startled, then paused before laughing a little helplessly, the movement of her chest pushing her tits wantonly against him. “I guess it doesn’t really matter if I tell you or not. If it wasn’t before, everything is seriously screwed up now.”

“No bloody kidding,” he muttered. He could barely smell himself through the miasma of sex and the Slayer’s juices. He wouldn’t be able to be around Dru for a week. Oh, bugger. Best not to think about Dru yet.

“Buffy.”

“Eh?”

“My name,” the Slayer clarified. “My name is Buffy.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And yes, I know you think it’s a stupid name, so don’t even start.”

“Bit weird,” he agreed easily, shifting slightly off her to the side, unable to help his hiss of loss when his half-hard prick slid out of her.

There was a short silence, then she added haltingly, “I’m Buffy Summers. Of Sunnydale, California.”

Spike lifted a puzzled, amused brow. Well, looked like they’d gone from bloody night to day on the identity secrecy front. Why the hell was she acting like a kiddie gone missing? Did the chit think he needed her entire sodding address? Then her eyes met his; anxious as all get-out, but flinty with determination. Christ. She wanted him to find her, in whatever future year she’d fallen from. Was she out of her gourd? “Sunnydale, eh? Itching for me to go off your bittier self some ways from now, are you?”

She tensed, but her lips quirked. “I’m sure you’ll try. Just like I’ll try to kill you.” Then some shadow crossed her face and she looked away, mouth drawing a tight line. Her words before they’d shagged—when she’d gotten frenzied at him—flitted through his head.  _No burning. Not again._  And there was that disturbing past tense business.

He gave her a slow, sideways look and then said casually, “I’m dead, aren’t I.”

He watched her startle and then gape at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Whenever you’re from,” he said evenly, “I’m dead.”

There was a tense pause, then, “You’re dead right now.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m not dead. Undead. Bit of a major difference, Slayer. And don’t use semantics to try and get out of this. Wherever you’re from, I’m blowing in the bloody breeze.” He stared unforgivingly at her, his stomach twisting at her deer-in-the-headlights face. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She looked away from him, as if that would stop him from reading the truth in her eyes. Too bad the chit had all the subtlety of a freight train. Her body was practically screaming it. “I thought we already agreed he wasn’t you,” she said softly, finally.

Bollocks. Not even a single denial.

“Fuck.”

Neither one of them said anything else for a moment, and Spike listened to the harsh pant of the Slayer’s distressed breath, the rapid pitter pattering of her little heart. Shame it didn’t entice him the way it had before. Although, come to think of it, this Slayer— _Buffy—_ hadn’t batted a single damn eye at his presence, not had an inkling of fear response, until now.

“We made love once, my Spike and I,” she said abruptly, and he stared at her. She— _Buffy_ (and, bloody hell, what kind of name  _was_  that? At least his future self had the right of that bit. Sounded like some butched up wrestler bird)—was staring down at the floor, fingers making slow rotations around each other on the carpet as she spoke. “It was the only time we made love.” She looked up briefly, a humorless smile quirking her lips as she caught his surprised gaze. “Oh, we screwed plenty. But made love… well, I never let him before then.”

He couldn’t help but lie there and watch her full lips move, bound into some damning spell by her soft girly voice. Still, unease and anger roiled in his gut, the words reminding him far too sharply of everything he wanted from Dru and knew he was never going to get. Sounded like his bleeding awful taste in women was a habit. His nostrils flared. “Is there a point to this, Slayer?”

She didn’t say anything for several beats, then, “I don’t know.” She shook her head and sighed. “Anyway, that night—the night we made love—it was the night before the battle when you… when I lost him. And I was stupid and thought he knew what I meant by it. It didn’t occur to me until after he was gone that he probably thought I was just doling out sympathy for a doomed man. A kind of pitying ‘thank you’.” Her voice had grown hoarse and thick, and he could scent the tears she wasn’t letting go. Ah, Christ, there they were. Some of them had escaped, rolling down her slender and tired-looking face. She didn’t seem to notice them right away, and her stare when she met his eyes again about undid him, all wet and soft as it was.

Buggering bollocks damn. Why did she have to cry?

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his temple. “And what does my— _his_ —great dusting in his big white poufy hat have to do with me?”

 

***

 

Buffy sat quietly for a long moment, swiping the stupid tears from her face. God, what  _did_  it have to do with him? This Spike didn’t care about any of it, at best. At worst, he was violently opposed to all ideas of himself as a hero. And if he ever found out that his future self went off and fought for a soul, she could about guarantee he’d be the one out the door with his virtue (evil?) fluttering.

And then it came to her. It didn’t have a damn thing to do with him. Not really. She just needed him to be there.

“I love you, Spike,” she whispered, not daring to look up.

The vampire next to her stiffened, even his unneeded breathing cut off. There was a long silence, then she heard him expel a slow breath, followed by a tense, “Well, I don’t fucking love you.”

She exhaled a small laugh, some kind of tension releasing even as a knife twisted in her stomach. “I know,” she said softly. “I don’t love  _you_ , either. But you’re the closest thing I have to him. I just… I needed to say it again.” And while knowing this Spike would never give her the reply she wanted, he wasn’t trying to discount her love either—he wasn’t shoving away the words she’d finally been brave enough to give voice to, out of fear or disbelief or why ever the hell he’d done it. This Spike, at least, believed her. It was enough.

 

***

 

 _I love you, Spike._  God fucking son of a bloody fuck. Who the hell did she think she was, spouting off like that at him? Was the universe entirely bloody hateful? Only woman who’d ever told him that outside of his mum, and it was the fucking Slayer. And she wasn’t even saying it to  _him_ , but to some sodding Slayer-whipped, nancied up future version of himself. Something roiling and hot burned in his chest that he was beginning to recognize as Buffy-induced pangs. He rose to his feet and stood staring down at her while her green eyes looked up unreadably.

“This is never happening again, Slayer,” he told her harshly, wishing he felt more certain about it himself. Christ, this was a disaster.

Buffy smiled unexpectedly, a sad, wistful kind of look. “That used to be my line.”

“Don’t give a fuck whose line it was when. This can’t happen again.” He tugged on his clothes, nostrils flaring. “I’m not yours. Don’t want to be yours. Next time I see you, I’ll kill you.”

And, with a snarl, he flung open the flat door and escaped into the hall, the echo of her words still teeming in his brain, no matter how far away he fled.  _I love you, Spike._


	9. Play It Again

Spike stumbled into the silent flat, whiskey bottle clutched in his hand. He took a long swig, then raised it to eye level and blinked blearily at the glass. The sodding thing—his third of the night—was almost gone. When had that happened? Growling in irritation, he pointed the slightly sloshing bottle at the old man slumped in the corner, who was staring blankly at the far wall.

“Bloody women! Am I right, mate?”

The bloke in the corner didn’t say a word. Of course, he wouldn’t, being that his vocal chords were done in, what with the side of his throat hanging out. Still, would’ve been a bit of alright to have to some confirmation on the subject. Unfortunately, Dru was the only one able to get any kind of conversation from corpses, and it looked like being entirely pissed was no trade for insanity in that category. He shook his head at the body.

“Shoulda known better than to open the door to someone looking like me, pops.”

Settling into the old man’s armchair, Spike caught a strong whiff of Slayer and sex emanating from somewhere on his person. Christ, he was like a bacchanalian beacon. He needed to shower. Needed to erase one of the best shags of his life and let the physical remnants fade enough that he could get back to Dru.

He didn’t move. Instead, he brought his fingers up—the ones that been inside the Slayer’s tight pussy—and held them under his nose. After two days, the scent had dulled slightly, lost that delicious edge of tang that her fresh juices had yielded. Even still, the remains had his cock hard in his jeans, and he was nearly frenzied with the craving to taste her again. Groaning, his unzipped his jeans and freed his stiffy, wrapping his free hand around the base in a vice-like grip. His eyes blinked shut, lost in the memory of Buffy’s golden, sweat-sheened neck in CBGB's. Except, this time, instead of just fondling her tight little body, he made good on the urge to shag her into the floor and ripped off that flimsy little pink number before pinning her beneath him, the heavy clash of guitar and drums vibrating around them. Buffy only fought him tokenly, a small smile on her pouting lips as she wrapped her deceptively strong legs around his waist and nudged his cock back into the waiting furnace of her wet cunt. When he had her nearly begging for release, he sunk his fangs in deep to her exposed throat and sent her screaming off the edge.

Spike’s eyes snapped open as he spent himself with a hoarse moan, come splattering down his hand as it pulsed from his softening prick. He stared at it, panting harshly.

Fucking hell.

With a growl, he flung the whisky bottle against the wall, where it shattered above the old man’s head and left bits of glass and liquor to drip onto stiff, grayed hair. Then, glaring at his come covered hand, he zipped up and wiped the mess on the edge of the chair.

Bloody pathetic.

He’d killed two Slayers and now shagged a third and here he was holed up like it was the end of the world. Which, for all that he felt like someone had screwed his fangs on backwards, he knew it wasn’t. Might be the end of Dru and him if he wasn’t careful, though. Sure, his dark princess shagged around when it suited her, but he couldn’t hold her to his standards—wasn’t her fault that she’d been taught and tortured into losing all regard for physical fidelity. There was never any menace to it. Still, much the same as Angelus had owned her entirely when it suited him, Dru had always been the jealous sort when it came to sharing Spike’s body with anything outside of family and dinner.

The same body that the Slayer had touched so passionately and desperately, like he was a ghost come back to life just for her (which, to her, he supposed he was). And god, he’d left her while she was crying. Crying over some version of him, no less.

He winced, unable to help the small voice calling him a complete wanker for that move. Evil, yeah, but making women cry had been Angelus’s bag. And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was anything like sodding Angelus.

 _I love you, Spike._  The words were like sunlight in his brain, burning everything else to dust and ashes.

“Bitch!” he railed, fingers lengthening into claws and shredding the arms of the armchair. “Didn’t ask for your fucking love! ”

God, all he’d ever wanted was Dru’s love. Dru’s luscious, black, unbeating heart bleeding happily next to his own. He’d never cared that it was misshapen and mad; he wanted to worship it for eternity.

Except that, in a hundred years, she’d never once offered it. Dru was Angelus’s, probably for bloody always. He nearly choked on the pain of admitting the long-known but never acknowledged truth—the truth Angelus had spent a decade trying to beat into his skull. He’d spent all the decades after hoping Dru’d eventually let go of her erstwhile and long absent ‘daddy,’ but, even now, the slightest vision beckoning his return had her giddy as a schoolgirl on sodding Sunday.

Spike was lucky if Dru even noticed when he was gone. At least it was presently bound to work in his favor. Since time didn’t exactly work for her in the usual way, chances were good she’d never realize he’d been gone a week when she saw him next. The minions knew to take care of her when he was away and bring her all the sprogs she wanted, and they’d find him if things started to go sideways.

He chuckled darkly, glancing over at the glass and whisky-showered body in the corner. “Tell you how I know the world’s run by tossers, mate? The love of my life doesn’t love me a stitch. Oh, she cares, yeah, as much as she can, but love me…” He swallowed bitterly. “Never.” He lifted his face bleakly toward the ceiling, the white popcorn rubbish all dotted with watermarks. “And, meanwhile, there’s some out-of-time Slayer running amok who seems more than happy to hand over her little pattering heart to me on a platter. Not literally, mind you. Nasty right hook she has for that occasion,” he muttered in admiration. “But in all the ways I’ve ever wanted Dru’s heart… there’s a fucking  _Slayer_  with hers held out.”

Except not held out to him, exactly. To some future version of him who’d apparently turned traitor to demonkind. Well, that bit wasn’t so hard to think about, really—wasn’t like he was the paragon of demon solidarity as it was. Case in point, his body was riddled with injuries from the several demon locales he’d cleaned out a few hours ago by way of a few all-out brawls. Shame he’d accidentally smashed all the whisky at the first location (well, more like the demon’s body he’d thrown at the bar had smashed it), and he’d had to settle for vodka. Better than nothing, if only barely. He’d been more careful at the second joint.

So he could understand not minding roughing up the town for the hell of it. But actually fighting alongside the Slayer for the sake of sunshine and puppies? Going down in some big battle in her name? No bit of rough and tumble was worth that. What in the fuck could have possessed him to do it?

And then it hit him.

_No. God, no._

But the Slayer had said it herself. She  _hadn’t let him_  make love to her before that once, which meant the attachment sure as hell hadn’t been on her end at the first. And there was only one reason he’d hang on to a woman who didn’t give two bits about him. Only one reason he’d tear his dignity to shreds and sod the outcome. Only one reason he’d give up everything he was and had.

His future self had fallen in love with the Slayer Buffy Summers.

Immolating fury filled him and he rose from the armchair with a deafening roar. He was half a moment from dashing the bit of furniture against the wall when a new thought stopped him cold.

If he was in love with the Slayer in the future, what had happened to Dru?

Straightening, he pulled back his demon visage and swept out the door, only one destination burning bright in his otherwise completely bolloxed head.

 

***

 

Buffy hadn’t heard a peep from Spike in two days, not since he’d practically run from the Watcher’s apartment to escape her. Story of her life, watching the backside of her lovers. Well, never with Spike before, but there was a first time for everything. And she’d pushed him too far. Pushed _them_  too far.

She’d slept with an actively evil Spike. There was the niggling sense of guilt and self-disgust waiting in the back of her throat, aching to break free. But it couldn’t—not when she didn’t feel that way about him anymore. Maybe having sex had been unfair to them both (it had definitely been stupid), but, hey, life was all about the unfair and stupid. 1977’s Spike wasn’t her Spike, but he was still  _Spike_. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if he had the same disconnected identity Angel did (there was never any confusing her first love with the monster that was Angelus), but he didn’t. The freaking vampire—even unknowingly—would never make anything that easy for her.

Except, falling into his embrace had been damningly easy.

All in all, it had been a miracle none of the neighbors had called the police on them, considering the amount of noise from their sexually charged destruction of most of the apartment. Of course, with a Slayer for a frequent visitor, chances were good the neighbors had gotten really used to ignoring strange nighttime noises.

After the fact, sitting naked in the apartment with the echo of Spike’s furious farewell had left her feeling exposed and nauseous. And utterly at a loss for what to do. She’d just alienated her sole supernatural contact and she was currently firmly stuck in 1977 for the foreseeable future.

She’d made it back to the Soho factory in a daze. Staying with the art crew there was only ever mentioned as temporary—a week at most—but they were past that deadline now.

“I’m going to find a job,” Buffy had said quietly, “and I’ll pay my way if you guys are willing to let me continue taking a bit of floor space for a while.”

So far, she’d been using someone’s temporarily donated sleeping bag on said floor. She hadn’t been the only one, actually. Friends seemed to rotate in and out on a daily basis, too drunk to get home or just not wanting to make the effort.

Andrea and Julian were the only two around when she got there to make her plea. She watched them trade looks, half-expecting they’d just ask her to leave. Val was the one who’d brought her to them and so the only one who had an inherently vested interest in whether Buffy stayed or went.

“We’re the main artists downstairs, you know,” Andrea said, after a beat of silence.

Well, Buffy hadn’t known that actually, but—if pressed—could have figured it out pretty easily. They both looked like the artist types—Andrea with her intense patterns and Julian basically being the poster child for ‘casually sloppy,’ with all his clothes half covered in paint. Still, she wasn’t really sure of the point of that statement, so she settled for a non-committal, “Right.”

“And Kell hasn’t been able to help out downstairs much since he took that construction gig with his uncle.” Kell was the fifth of the six roommates. Buffy had only met him twice the entire time she’d been staying there—apparently he worked a lot.

“Yeah, he was great,” Julian added. “Knew all the tools and stuff.”

Buffy finally thought she might’ve figured out where this was going. “I have some construction experience,” she offered. Okay, so it was like a day of construction experience, but fixing up the house on Revello after every attack had to count for something, right? And she’d definitely learned about important stuff like wall anchors and circular saws (at least, in theory) from Xander.

“And… and I know how to hang artwork,” she added, a bit more confidently. That, at least, wasn’t a stretch. Her mom had taken advantage of her Slayer strength a lot after she learned it existed, asking Buffy to lift heavy statues and gigantic paintings that normally would’ve taken three people.

Another traded look between roommates.

“That works for us,” Julian said.

“We can’t pay you much,” Andrea added quickly. “But it would definitely take care of your rent, and there’d be a little cash.”

At that point, it could’ve paid in beans and Buffy would’ve taken the job. So she did. If nothing else, it was way better than flipping burgers or whatever crappy job she was likely able to get sans personal identification.

In celebration of her official roommate status (once it was confirmed with the others that her continued presence was acceptable), Steve and Julian even salvaged a futon from somewhere (she really didn’t want to know from where) and stuck it in the corner of the massive living room for her, and then they sat and traded jibes while passing around a cheap bottle of wine. It was strangely comfortable, sitting there while they needled David—their shy and somewhat elusive sixth roommate—about his new girlfriend.

“Better make sure your right hand sends her a ‘thank you’ note!” Steve crowed.

“But the Love Shop’s gonna be lonely without you, dude,” Val added.

David took it all with good grace, pausing only to flip them off before taking a big chug of wine. “You’re all a bunch of assholes.”

“Yeah, we are. And you couldn’t live without us,” Andrea said smugly, nudging him with a friendly shoulder.

“Somebody has to spew all the shit to keep your baby face so healthy,” Julian finished, sending them all into stitches.

Buffy didn't say much through the evening. None of their shared history meshed with hers—leaving her with the sudden realization of how it must’ve felt whenever anyone encountered the Scoobies, even if they were doing their best to be welcoming. And she was honest enough to admit they’d never been very good at the whole welcoming thing. But, beyond being out of the loop, there was another good reason to keep the Buffy chatter to a minimum: if she opened her mouth, inevitably she’d start referencing things that didn’t exist yet. So she just took large gulps of wine and giggled instead. Needless to stay, she was somewhat tipsy when they all called it quits for the night.

Once she was alone in the living room, an unquestionable restlessness rose in her, despite the slight languor in her veins—a familiar, thrumming need. Minus her run-ins with Spike, she hadn’t slayed or fought anything in over a week, and it felt like an eternity. She’d managed to stave off the need before now with the reminder that this wasn’t her time to take care of, and she had planned to be out of dodge before the itch got to any kind of noticeable proportions. But that hope had been royally flushed. So she tucked a stake into the back of her waistband and stepped into the night. It was time to find out what kind of demons made their home in 1977 Soho.

 

***

 

Spike was a few blocks from the factory the Slayer had been bunking down in when the sounds of a nearby scuffle caught his ears. This time of night, it was probably some bloke getting mugged or eaten. Either way, he wasn’t doing the mugging or eating, so it didn’t make sod all difference to him (he’d had his own quick bite a few blocks down from a pretty little whore, and she’d done the good turn of sobering him slightly). He had nearly moved out of earshot when he heard a snippet of feminine voice. Very bloody familiar feminine voice.

He ground to an immediate halt, anticipation coursing through him. Turning on his heel, he swept toward the noise.

And there she was, a block to the east in a dead end alley, taking on a pair of frovalox demons. Annoying buggers always came in pairs, and hunted like mockingbirds. One would make noises of the helpless or wounded in a dark alley while the other came up from behind for the kill. No doubt how the Slayer got herself penned in with the ugly bastards. The slimy tentacles dripping off their chins were not only hideous, they were also sharp as hell, and the demons knew just how to whip them around to cut up the skin of their prey or enemies. Based on the gashes littering the Slayer’s forearms, he guessed she’d had an up close demonstration of it. Chit didn’t look worried in the least, though. Her green eyes were bright in the dark as she wielded a discarded bit of rebar, lunging back and catapulting off the alley walls like some kind of deadly whirling dervish.

Christ, she was glorious.

When she managed to impale one of the demons right through the chest in the place where a human heart would be, she gave the most bloody adorable, feral grin of victory, the look falling after a moment when the demon struggled back to its feet.  _Heart’s a bit lower and to the right on them, luv._

“Okay, you are seriously not getting the ‘I want you to die’ message,” she said breathlessly, a pout lacing her voice. An astoundingly perky smile brightened her face as she withdrew the rebar and poised again to strike. “But, you know what they say… if at first you don’t succeed…” She lunged forward and threw the rebar like a javelin, simultaneously kicking back to divert the second demon. The metal lodged itself in the intended demon’s eye and it crashed to the ground with a blood-curdling scream as Buffy looked on in satisfaction. “Try again.”

Spike swallowed an outright laugh. No doubt the Slayer had already sussed out his presence, but there was no need to further interrupt her prior engagement. Leaning against the outside corner of the alley wall, he pulled out a smoke and waited.

 

***

 

She knew Spike was watching her, but didn’t turn around. Even if he’d really come to kill her this time, she knew he’d wait until she was done with her current quarry. Which was good, because this last guy was getting annoying. And gross. Once his partner had hit the pavement, the second tentacled demon had backed up and promptly vomited all over the alley. She stopped dead in her tracks, nose wrinkling in disgust. Ewww. Then confusion and the beginnings of worried guilt tugged at her. Was it a stress response to losing the other one? The one demon had sounded hurt when she’d found it—maybe the attack was just to protect its mate. Oh god, maybe she’d seriously misread this whole thing. What if these demons were usually harmless?

Spike must’ve seen her hesitate.

“Just a defense mechanism, pet. Not many beasts that want to stick around the smell.” There was a pause. “Bits of human in there, according to my nose.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she breathed out a deep sigh of relief. Okay, it was officially back to ‘ewww’ land. She tugged out the rebar from the dead demon with a gross squelch and watched the remaining demon as it hissed at her, its stupid sharp tentacle things flailing.

“In the scheme of bad guys, sorry, buddy, you’re way back in line,” she told him matter-of-factly, hefting the rebar and throwing it with her full weight. It sliced into the demon’s forehead, the force of the blow making her opponent fly backward into the alley wall, where the metal imbedded itself, leaving the demon stuck there like a pinned-up insect.

Smiling and brushing off her hands, she pivoted to face the lurking vampire. “So, what do you think? Nine out of ten?”

Spike shifted out of the shadows, brow furrowing. And geez, he looked terrible. His hair—which he seemed to blow-dry straight up in this era before gelling it spiked—was all disheveled, and he was littered with scratches and bruises. Still, his blue eyes were steady and unblinking on her, unnaturally bright around his constant dark eyeliner. The dim streetlight was reflecting slightly off his eyebrow piercing as he tilted his head.

“Nine out of ten, luv?” came his curious rumble.

“You know, like in the Olympics.” She shrugged. “This could be, oh, I don’t know… the demon impaling event?”

She caught the slight twitch of a suppressed smile. “Think nine out of ten’s fair.”

There was a heavy pause, and Buffy swallowed, fixing him with a searching look. “You look like hell.”

White teeth flashed in her direction. “Cleaned out a couple demon joints earlier.”

“Oh? I should get you a deputy Slayer badge.”

She watched his jaw clench tightly, nostrils flaring. He took a threatening step forward. “What happens to Dru?”

Buffy stared at him in astonishment. “Out of left field much?”

He held her gaze unforgivingly. “What. Happens. To. Dru?” He flung his hand out in angry emphasis. “Obviously something happens to her in this fucking future of yours.”

Irrational jealousy rose in Buffy’s throat. Out of all the things he could ask to know about the future, he was worried about Drusilla. Worried about the woman he loved. The idea of telling him how much of a ho-bag his girlfriend would become was satisfying on a purely petty level, but it would also hurt him deeply. And she was really done doing that. She gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’m not sure.”

Spike narrowed his eyes at her and took another step forward, a low growl rumbling through his throat. “You’re lying, Slayer.”

She glared at him. “So what if I am? Deal with it.” Stupid vampire. She was trying to protect him.

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither giving an inch. Finally, Spike sighed and his expression softened. “The secrecy bit’s already buggered, pet. No point in half arsing the truth now.”

She bit her lip and glanced away. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Oh god,” came his hoarse voice, “she’s dust then, isn’t she?” The sound of a snarl drew her gaze back to him. He had vamped out, and his eyes were flashing amber as he strode toward her and grabbed her shoulders in a hurting hold. “Who bloody does it? How do I lose her?  _Tell me_!”

Buffy snapped her arms up and broke his hold, shoving him backwards. “She’s not dead, Spike!” When he paused in confusion, she added gently, “She leaves you.”

The alley fell into a swallowing silence. Spike shifted back to his human guise as disbelief, devastation, and fury made their way across his face in quick succession. He opened his mouth several times, only to snap it shut again, before exploding with, “She  _what_?”

Buffy sighed. “She leaves you. For a chaos demon.”

Spike stared at her in shocked disgust before spinning slightly and roaring as he landed a vicious punch against the brick. Crumbling bits of wall skittered to the ground. “Oh, that’s just bloody great. A century of devotion I give her, and she up and sodding leaves me! For a  _chaos demon_! Do you have any idea how–” Shuddering, he bent his forearms against the wall, forehead nearly touching the brick. His entire body was rigid and rumbling.

Buffy stifled the urge to reach out to him. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Spike just gave a kind of angry grunt from the wall. Eventually, he turned his head to look at her, blue eyes dull with hurt. “Why?”

“Um, why does she leave you?” He nodded tersely and she grimaced. “It’s kind of complicated.”

“Well, un-fucking-complicate it.”

She hesitated. If he hadn’t meant his threat to kill her before, he probably would after this. “Fine. The short version? You help me take down Angelus when he tries to end the world.”

Spike gaped at her.

“You asked.”

“Right,” he managed finally. “That…” He cleared his throat. “Thought Angelus had come over all soul-having or some nonsense. The Bitch kicked him out a long time ago for coming over soft.”

Buffy winced. “Yeah, he did. It’s just… he kind of loses it in the future.”

Spike pushed himself off from the wall with an incredulous snort. “He loses it? What, just misplaces the thing, does he? Forgets to look under the sofa cushions?”

“Ha ha.” She drew in a deep breath. “He– Angel and I… we slept together and it kind of… left. Turns out his curse had a loophole. Anyway, a moment of perfect happiness turned to major badness.”

Spike surveyed her narrowly, his expression unreadable. “Young virgin, were you?”

Buffy flushed. God, was it always that apparent? How had she not…

Shrugging in angry embarrassment, she looked away.

As if reading her mind, Spike continued more gently, “No shame in admitting it, Slayer. No secret that Peaches has a type.” He cast her a heavily-lidded look, muttering, “And it’s not like I don’t know how handedly you can shag a fellow out of his senses.”

“I learned most of that from you.”

Spike arched his pierced brow. “That so.”

“Yep.” She paused, brow furrowing. “You are weirdly un-angry at me.”

He gave her a somewhat rueful look. “Bit liquored up. Helps.” He sighed and stepped toward her again, but slowly this time. “Shouldn’t have happened, Slayer, but it was a brilliant shag.”

She blinked at him. “Huh? Oh, I didn’t mean angry for us. I meant for Angelus.”

“Should I be?”

“You were definitely pissed when it happened.”

Spike’s expression turned thoughtful. “Well, it’s not happened yet, has it? Just have to keep your bittier self from spreading your knees to my wanker of a grandsire and it’ll all be roses.”

Buffy's throat grew tight. “Guess it will be. Then Drusilla won’t leave you, and you won’t–” Her voice cut off and her heart fell to her knees as full realization struck.

“And I won’t stick around to become your leashed-up vamp,” Spike continued casually. “Or press myself in with the do-gooder lot and become a hunk of dusty bits.” He arched a brow. “God, Slayer, seems like my future life just went from bad to bloody worse after meeting you. Good thing I have a bit of warning this time, innit?”

Buffy stared at him in horror.  _Oh god, what did I just do?_

 

***

 

Spike watched as Buffy whirled away from him. Her back was shaking with tiny hiccups, and she was clearly struggling to breath properly—all the bits that heralded an onslaught of tears.

Oh, bloody hell, not again.

“Slayer?”

She tensed but didn’t turn around. “Just…” Her voice was trembling and low, and he watched her clench her fists before she bit out, “Just leave, Spike. You got what you came for. Now leave… leave me alone.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she abruptly stopped talking.

He stared at her helplessly. He should have been chuffed to bits. He knew now that his princess was all right and would stay with him, provided he could keep this Slayer’s future virgin legs shut, and provided Dru forgave him for the present lapse in fidelity. Then he could pretend Buffy's future had never bloody existed at all and go back to worshipping his mad goddess. Yeah, he should have been fucking ecstatic.

But, Christ, why did he only feel dread?

“Buffy.”

She startled at that one, but still didn’t turn. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and sharp. “There’s nothing else to talk about. Go back to– just go.”

He fell silent but didn’t move. Wasn't sure he could, as a matter of fact. They stood immobile in the stinking alley, at an impasse. Finally, he managed a halting, “Alright. Won’t bother you anymore, Slayer. Go on and get yourself back to your time. We’ll take up the ‘to the death’ bit in a few years.”

He watched her hunch further in on herself before whirling around, her green eyes furious and flashing. “It’s not going to be my time anymore! I— _oh god—_ I ruined it!” Her expression turned dark and bitter. “Last time I have anything to do with vengeance demons or their freaking relatives.”

What was this now? Spike frowned at her. “What are you on about?”

She shook her head, meeting his eyes with a humorless half smile. “In my time, I went to Africa to get… to get you back.”

His frown deepened. Africa? What the hell was in Africa? “The Asphyx bloke,” he muttered in realization. “Heard some rumors of him.”

“That’s the guy. Goes by Lloyd. He’s sort of a giant rock with legs.”

“Christ.” He swallowed roughly, knowing he probably looked as pole-axed as he felt. The Slayer had sought out the African demon trials for  _him_?

“Anyway,” Buffy continued shakily, “I won. So I asked for you back.” Her chin started trembling. “Except something went wrong—I’m thinking Lloyd meant it to—and…”

“You ended up here,” he said in sudden understanding. Well, that explained the chit landing on his head. His brain teemed with the memory of her hopeful gaze and her filthy—her  _battle-stained_ —body.

“I ended up here,” she echoed sardonically. He watched her chin rise and her green eyes harden, as if daring her body to betray her with weakness again.

Something bright and hard was burning in his chest that he was afraid to identify. “You… god, Slayer, no one’s ever done anything like that for me.”

He doubted of either of them had missed the fact that there was no longer a mention of  _her_  Spike versus him, but he wasn’t about to mention it. Didn’t want to know what it meant. But he suddenly didn’t want it to change, either.

Buffy laughed humorlessly. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t dead. And now you won’t be.” Her face turned dangerously blank. “Lloyd will have done exactly what I wanted. You’ll still be around.” Then she added quietly, inexplicably, “You’ll still be you, the Slayer killer.”

Neither of them said a word to that.

Eventually, Buffy motioned impatiently in his direction, not quite looking at him. “It stinks here. If you’re not looking to kill me for now, can you please move? I need to go take a shower.”

Wordlessly, Spike shifted to the side and she swept past him, the perfume of her presence filling his nostrils with painful force. The dread in his stomach became unbearable.

“Wait.”

Buffy paused on the street and glanced back at him wearily. “What, Spike?”

He drew in an unnecessary breath, not even knowing himself what he intended to say. “Probably going to take you some time to get back to whenever you’re from,” he said finally.

Buffy frowned at him. “So?”

“So, no reason for you to do it alone, Slayer.”

Surprise flashed across her features, quickly followed by cold understanding—though of what, he wasn’t sure. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here as soon as I can. Just pretend I don’t exist until then.”

Oh, for Chrissake, she thought he was trying to hurry her out. He growled in frustration. “That’s not what I’m bloody saying.”

She regarded him neutrally. “What are you saying then?”

He ran a hair through his already fucked-up hair, glad for the whisky still running through his veins. “I’m saying that… Bollocks.” He leveled a hard gaze on her, feeling himself flinch at the slight flash of hope in her expression. “I’m saying I can’t give you the future you seem to want, Slayer. I just can’t. I meant it when I said I wasn’t yours. Don’t really know you, don’t love you, and don’t want to be whatever the hell it is that I was in your time. Particularly not fond of the being dust part.”

He watched the Slayer’s expression shut down again, her voice sharp. “Thanks for the recap. Are you done now?”

“No, I’m not done,” he snarled. “I can’t give you the future you want, alright? But I can give you now. For a bit. Until you get back.”

 

***

 

Buffy’s entire body froze in shock. She stared at him, wide-eyed, really sure she must’ve misheard. “Wait. What?” Spike didn’t reply, his gaze darting away from her, and she turned fully toward him, her voice steadier than she felt. “Why?”

Blue eyes met hers briefly. “No one’s ever done anything like that for me,” he whispered. He shook his head, looking angry and frustrated. “And as much as this is just bloody  _wrong_ , doesn’t seem like either one of us cares all that much.”

She opened her mouth to object, then stopped. For all that she knew she  _should_  care, she just couldn’t muster the energy. No matter what, she was for sure going to end up Spike-less back in 2003 now, and only god knew what else would have changed because of it. She wrapped her arms around her waist protectively. “What about Drusilla?”

There was a long pause, then Spike said lowly, “Let me worry about Dru.” At her disbelieving look, he sighed and added, “Me and Dru’ve been together for a century, luv. Believe me, I’ve learned how to grovel. She might be brassed for a year or two after this, but she’ll forgive me.” There was a bitter twist to his mouth. “So long as I don’t do anything to take her fucking daddy away, she’ll forgive me.”

“It’s still a risk.”

Spike looked amused at that. “Slayer, I think we’re past worrying about risk, considering I still reek of your delicious cunt.” A shadow passed over his face. “Not offering you anything more than a bit of company, alright? Not going to help you if you get in over your head and not going to pretend to care about you. But I can be around until you get sorted. If that’s not what you’re looking for, then you just hand me my walking papers and I’ll be on my merry way.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Just so we’re clear: you, evil Slayer killing vampire, are offering to be my– my consort,” her tongue tripped over the unfamiliar word, “while I’m here?”

Spike looked amused. “Consort?”

“Well, my casual… partner, or companion, or whatever.”

He was silent, and she had the distinct feeling that he was sharply debating taking the entire offer away. Her chest clenched, but he just nodded slowly. “Seems I am.”

“Because I fought to get you back, in this future you don’t want to happen, with this… with me.” The worst of it was, she couldn’t blame him for that. If anyone had come up to her at age fourteen and told her there was some way to not be the Slayer, to not end up fighting every night of her life and dying and losing heaven and losing him (which was really a  _them_ )… she knew her teenage self would have taken the chance in a heartbeat. Because she didn’t know any better. Because she didn’t understand that even the things that cost the most were worth having. And if a teenage girl couldn’t go for it, there was about a snowball’s chance in hell that a soulless demon would.

Spike sighed, glancing up and away from her, toward the cloudy night sky. “Just because I don’t want it to happen doesn’t mean that what you did doesn’t  _mean_  something to me, Slayer.” He shrugged. “Just seems fair, is all.”

She couldn’t help a dark, resigned laugh. “Oh, yeah, this whole thing has been one gigantic pile of fair.”

Spike didn’t say anything to that. Heck, he hadn’t even said anything about her almost subconscious lapse in terminology between her Spike and him. It felt half like a betrayal, but she hadn’t stopped it, either. Lloyd might’ve tricked her into destroying any hope of getting Spike back in 2003, but he couldn’t take Spike from her here and now. This Spike really was the only version left now, so what was the point in separating them?

When it became apparent Spike wasn’t going to add anything else, she turned on her heel and started back toward the factory, stopping briefly after a few steps and turning her head. “Spike?”

He regarded her unreadably from his spot on the sidewalk. “Yeah?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

He nodded. “Yeah, see you tomorrow, Slayer.”


	10. Destruction

Spike had barely finished watching Buffy walk out of sight (not that he was being obvious about that part—to the general onlooker, he’d been casually lighting a smoke—but his eyes followed her pert arse from beneath hooded lids until it disappeared around a corner) when he felt the familiar twinge of presence that warned him one of the minions was nearby.

He blew out a steady stream of smoke into the silent dark.

“Either tell me what you need or sod off,” he growled.

“Sorry to bother you, Boss,” came Lux’s apologetic voice as he slipped from the shadows, “but the Mistress is having a fit.”

Oh bugger. He tossed the fag-end down and ground it beneath his boot. “She’s at the flat?”

Lux nodded violently, mohawk bobbing. “Yes, Boss. She was out, but we… we got her to go back.” He winced, and Spike couldn’t help a small snort.

“She dust anybody?”

“No, but Thrash’ll be out of commission for a few days.”

“Right.” He grimaced. This wasn't likely to go well, what with him still reeking of Slayer and sex. Not that it would matter anyhow, if Dru was off lost in visions. If she’d seen his indiscretion. If she’d sussed out what he’d just committed himself to. Fuck, she’d probably understand it better than he did.

Because he wasn’t sure he understood a bloody thing, the least of which being that a Slayer—the paragon of goodness and light—had risked her angelic arse to bring a demon back to life. To bring  _him_  back to life. He didn’t want to be her future version of him, but there was no denying her version had been robbed when she didn’t get her prize. And he wasn’t about to let that kind of insult stand. The Asphyx had probably expected Spike to kill her on sight, leaving no one the wiser and Spike only a bit baffled as to his sudden rain of luck. Normally, he’d appreciate that kind of dirty pool, but not when it was his own pile of dust on the line.

Dust he’d never be now—at least, not that way. He’d wait for news of a Slayer in Sunnydale, California, kill her (or at least make sure she kept her knees shut), and then get the fuck out of dodge to live out eternity with his dark goddess. The self same goddess who’d apparently up and left him in the future when he helped off Peaches. Damn, he should’ve asked Buffy more about how that’d happened exactly. He hoped it had been painful.

Especially since his princess had abandoned him for it. How was stopping the berk from ending the world a leave-able offense? Damning the globe to some kind of non-existence or hell dimension or what-have-you didn’t exactly sound like a charming holiday, particularly since it likely meant the destruction of the human race, aka, their entire bloody food supply. And Peaches had wanted  _that_? It sounded like the Angelus from the future had lost a few screws. The Angelus that Spike knew was an evil, vindictive bastard for sure, but the world destructing delusions of grandeur had always been Old Batface’s territory.

But it didn’t matter in the end why the prat had decided to pull a Four Horsemen routine. It still all came down to the fact that the vampire who’d made his fledgehood hell decided to also muck up his future for good measure. Anger burned in him as he recalled Buffy’s guilt-ridden shame at admitting she’d let Angelus take a crack at her maidenhead. As if it were her fault that his curse was broken by corrupting the innocence of an untouched child. Oh, yeah, that was Angelus all over.

God, he should just hunt down the piece of work now and save everyone the trouble. The entire planet would be all the merrier if his grandsire was blowing in the breeze. But then Dru would be lost to him for sure.

His gut twisted.

Well, if it was to be the Scyllian choice, he’d take the route that included Dru in his life. Every sodding time. He was Love’s Goddamn Bitch walking. But still there was the whisper of Buffy’s soft declaration in his head, turning everything sideways.  _I love you, Spike_.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Uh, Boss?”

Spike snapped sharply from his thoughts and scowled at the cowering Lux. “I’ll see to Dru. Go fetch some kind of tasty morsel to tempt her with when she comes around.”

He left without waiting for a reply, striding into the dark, back to his mad beloved and whatever retribution awaited him there.

But, even as he went, all he could see was the vulnerable, warm astonishment in Buffy’s eyes when he’d said he’d stick around. And god, he hated how much he wanted to see that again.

 

***

 

She’d destroyed her future. Just like that. Poof. Whoosh. Gone. Buffy stared into the dingy bathroom mirror, wondering at the woman who stared back at her. After her resurrection, her reflection had never looked quite right, like one of those funhouse mirrors that changed you just little enough that you weren’t sure if it was a joke mirror, or if you were just losing your mind.

She turned on the sink full blast, nearly sighing in relief when scalding water poured from the tap, and plunged her hands in. The water was so hot it steamed, and the burning of it kept her mind so bright with buzzing that no more real thoughts could form at all.

She’d gotten really good at finding that knife’s edge over the years and, every once in a while, had purposefully gone over it. In the first weeks after her resurrection, she nearly blistered her skin in the shower, desperate for sensation to prevail against the jagged presence of heavenly memories. Ironically, it turned out it wasn’t heat that would do that for her, but cold.

_Spike._

She twisted the tap shut and left her wet hands to grasp the slick edges of the ceramic sink as she took a deep breath. Sometimes, after a particularly strenuous sex marathon, Spike would drop off to sleep—for no more than a minute or two (as he rightfully knew if he stayed out of commission long, she’d be gone)—and she’d find herself just staring at him, brushing her fingers against the cool, pale muscle of his waist, or shoulders, or back. He always looked most like a thing in sleep, like some perfectly sculpted piece of marble. And then he’d breathe—an irregular, shallow inhalation—and her fingers would drop away as if burned. It was terrible to remember that he was alive.

Oh, but not at the end. She doubted he could have understood what it meant for her to lay there that last night and stroke his sleeping body and wait for the breaths. She’d counted each one in the wee hours of the morning, and dropped off to sleep herself somewhere between thirty-six and thirty-eight.

Buffy stared at her doppelganger in the mirror. It was the inverse of Spike—real in reflection but entirely untouchable. Spike was all about touch—about contact. Soft, ancient leather. Blistering insults. Demanding kisses. Devilish tongue. Lightning quick uppercut. Obsessive fiddling.

Would she remember any of that back in 2003? Or would whatever changes she’d made write over anything that’d happened before? The woman in the mirror might not even exist anymore.

For now, it seemed that all she had left of her and Spike was this short time in 1977 with his past self. A past self who was still an active, amoral killer. At least, while he was with her, he wasn’t out being evil. And he’d offered. He’d  _offered_. That went way beyond attraction and into the realm of feelings. Why was he being so relatively kind to her, when all he’d had for her during their first years in Sunnydale was unwilling lust and obsession? The only huge difference seemed to be that she was in love with him now, and that she’d treated him that way. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? But Spike’s words were sliding to the forefront. _No one’s ever done anything like that for me._

Maybe it was that simple. And if it wasn’t, what did it even matter? This was what she had now.

“Well,” she murmured, touching a finger to her self in the mirror, to the lines that rested on her brow—Slayer lines, Dawn had announced once, as if it wasn’t everything else that’d actually put them there, “guess I’d better make this count.”

 

***

 

The flat was a shambles when he arrived. Not that it was ever in bloody apple pie order, but there was usually a semblance of logic to the chaos. A bit of domesticity, as it were. Pointedly lowbrow in defiance of the whorish opulence Darla and Angelus used to insist on, but homey nonetheless.

And Dru had taken it apart. Apparently she’d gotten hold of one of the minions in between now and Lux’s departure, as there was blood sprayed on all the walls and a raining of dust on the floor. The furniture was overturned and half demolished, and the plaster cracked and muddied. His dark beauty was in the center of it all, spinning in tight, frenzied circles, like the mad goddess Lyssa come to life in a bloodied gown. She slowly petered to a stop as Spike came into the room, and he braced himself for the worst. Of course, when her dark eyes met his, she burst out laughing. Heaping great hysterical giggles that nearly bent her willowy frame straight over.

Right then. He regarded her warily. “Dru…”

Her laughter stopped abruptly and she looked up at him from her half bent position, her expression cold and closed. “You’re covered in her.”

Bugger. Well, wasn’t like she needed a vision to suss that bit out, anyhow. Her mind may have had a predilection for walk-abouts, but there was nothing wrong with her nose. “Dru–”

She cut him off with a hiss. “No better than a chimney climbing boy, you are. You’re covered in ashes. All soot and crows.” Then she burst out into another high-pitched giggling fit.

Christ, this was on the extreme end of swinging, even for Dru. Spike ran a tense hand through his already royally fucked hair, wishing he had another handle of whisky about. “Mind sharing what’s so funny, ducks?”

She cocked her head at him, looking surprised. “Can’t you see it?”

“Not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for, luv.”

“All the pretty pictures are rearranged,” she said absently, her attention shifting to the ceiling, as if it were moving around as she watched. He wasn’t honestly sure her mind ever got the concept of ceilings—there was always something floating above her head, whether stars or fish or demons sodding dancing.

He took a cautious step toward her. “That they are, my princess.” He latched on desperately to the better end of his encounter with Buffy. “Got the future all sorts of unbuggered now. Going to be so good for us.” He paused, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he realized a sure topic to appease her. Even if that topic made his blood boil. “And for Angelus, too. Going to keep Peaches as a miserable member of the undead, yeah?”

Dru just pursed her lips. “Poor knight,” she crooned, drifting toward him with a sultry step, even as her eyes were warningly flat. “So bad for mummy, you were. Black pitch and hollow hate. But all her goodness burns you.”

He saw Dru’s hands lash out the moment before she reached him, sudden claws and keening fury. After her attacks of the last week, this was almost expected, and he’d had enough of rake marks on his face. He snarled and grappled her wrists, pinning her arms back against her chest. “Bloody hell, Dru! Stop it!”

“But it’s all wrong,” she wailed as she struggled against him. “You won’t kill her. Never! Never!”

He swallowed roughly, his undead heart clenching in his chest even as he growled a fierce denial. “It’s just not time yet, ducks. Gotta wait a bit and take the chit down in her own time, alright?”

He hoped. At least whatever bittier version he found of the Slayer in the future wouldn’t be bolloxing up everything with confessions of love. Wouldn’t kiss him with frightening hunger and familiarity. Wouldn’t be some infuriating, intoxicating mix of wearily battle worn and morbidly funny.

Hell, he hated the bitty version already.

Dru’s furious attempted slashing turned to weeping and she sagged in his arms. “My wicked boy is lost. All lost to me.”

“I’m right here,” he soothed.

She growled through her tears. “You’re covered in her,” she repeated harshly.

He couldn’t argue that fact, and knew better than to mention that it wouldn’t likely be the last time. He repressed a pleasured shiver at the memory of the Slayer's warm pink little pussy. “Just paying out a debt, Dru,” he said instead. “She’ll be gone soon and we'll be back to right."

Dru continued weeping. “Lost,” she cried. “It’s not time, too early.” She started struggling in his arms again, this time to push away from him. “Good boys don’t belong here, stinking of Sunshine.” She wriggled from his grasp and pointed at the door, her face slipping into a furious demon guise. “Get out! Get out!”

Spike watched his sire tightly. It was no less than he’d expected, coming here, but the rejection still left him bitter. She’d kicked him to the curb permanently for a piss poor reason in the future, and then gone off with a bloody  _chaos demon_. As if their century together didn’t mean a thing. But that wasn’t fair, was it? This Dru— _his_  Dru—hadn’t done that. And this wasn’t nearly the first time they’d had a rough spat.

But it was the first time he hadn’t fallen on his knees for her.

Oh, he knew what to do for forgiveness. Knew what Dru waiting for as she watched him appraisingly, her amber eyes glinting with a mix of fury and come-hither seduction. He knew exactly how she liked to be forced and wooed. His mind whirled with all the glorious times he’d crawled belly-up to her and then taken them to paint the town red. But, to his creeping unease, the thought wasn’t nearly as appealing as usual. He hadn’t even shagged Dru since the night he’d killed Nikki. Since the night Buffy had come into his life.

A light bulb went on in his head. Maybe that was all the twisted up rot with the Slayer was, some mess from his cock confusing the lust of the kill and the rush of hatred with something more tender.

With a snarl, he strode toward Dru and brutally smashed his mouth against hers, meeting her fangs with his own as she squealed in surprise. He didn’t bother to drive them toward the bedroom, just lifted his dark beauty up around his waist in her red-spattered gown as she growled happily, claws digging into his shoulders.

“Watch the leather, pet,” he murmured, letting her go just briefly to shrug off his prize and unbuckle his belt.

“Vicious boy,” Dru said, sing-song, as she sank her fangs into his neck.

He groaned and pressed them back against the wall, trying and utterly failing not to remember how he’d battled the Slayer in such a similar way. And why did that get him harder than the blisteringly sharp pain of his sire’s fangs?

He roared and shoved Dru’s skirts up. Thank god his girl never bothered with knickers. He plunged into her without preamble, and then froze. Oh fuck, it was all wrong. She was too cold where she should have been hot, and dry when she should have been dripping, and her cunny didn’t hold him in that maddeningly vice-like way.

Bloody hell.  _No._

He snapped his eyes closed and fucked Dru hard against the wall, to her growls of pleasure as his rough treatment left her battered and bleeding. And when he came, it was to Buffy’s face beneath his lids, her mouth parting in a perfect ‘o’ as he brought her quivering past the edge.

Spike was trembling when his release was milked from him and Dru started struggling again in his arms. When he met her eyes, she was glaring at him as if she knew where his thoughts had been.

He swallowed and tucked himself back into his jeans as he stepped carefully out of striking distance. Christ, what could he even say? “I’ll be back when the Slayer’s gone, luv,” he said finally, evenly. “Dark and rotten as ever.”

Dru’s eyes again fluttered to the ceiling, and she said stiffly, “All the pretty pictures rearranged, and you’re out of your portrait.”

He was definitely out of something, choosing the temporary company of a Slayer over his sire’s good graces. If he had any ounce of sense, he’d say to hell with his offer and leave the chit high and dry come the morrow, then shag his black beauty until he forgot what the Slayer tasted like.

Which was strawberries and lemon. Fucking Christ.

He bent down and retrieved his duster. “Sorry, luv,” he told Dru hoarsely. “I’ll be back soon.”

That earned him only an irate hiss, so he just turned and swept out of the door.

Lux was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, a squirming babe on the floor by his feet. “Alright now, Boss?”

“Going to be away for a while,” Spike said shortly. “Watch Dru while I’m gone.” He grabbed the minion by his lapels with a growl. “You make sure she has every bloody thing she wants, you hear me?”

Lux bobbed a quick, terrified nod. “Yes, Boss. Of course.”

“Good.” He released the shaking minion and headed swiftly into the remaining night, sure only of the fact that he needed to find another good brawl, or ten. Or maybe he just needed to find the Slayer and drain her dry.

He halted on the sidewalk, nostrils flaring. Buffy’s scent was all covered now, drowning in the heavy miasma of his sire and blood. A fact that should’ve made him rejoice but instead just left him angry and empty.

What was she doing to him?

Growling, he changed course and headed toward his recently obtained flat. He needed to shower. And then probably clean the sodding place. Something told him that, if the Slayer stopped by, she wouldn’t appreciate the corpse that was currently his living room decoration.


	11. Shaky Standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to yellowb for ensuring New York didn’t suddenly change from a tokens to ticketing system overnight (wouldn’t 1977 NYC have been surprised!)

She half-expected Spike not to show the next night. But there he was, smoking in the shade of the factory loading dock, no more than a step away from the last rays of spring sun. He’d evidently been risking self-immolation to get places since time immemorial.

Buffy had spent most of the daylight hours at her new job downstairs in the art gallery—a space that looked surprisingly legitimate, all considering; with austere white walls, a reception desk, and that special musty aroma that thrived in the presence of art.

Andrea had even given her an advance on her pay, noting that Buffy needed to actually appear like she belonged in a gallery, and her borrowed cast-offs weren’t exactly getting the job done. Buffy wasn’t about to complain. Shopping in New York City? Major yes. Apparently there were perks to this screwed up back-in-time disaster, after all.

And, at the end of the day, there was Spike. Waiting for her. Like always. She swallowed down a veritable parade of memories, tucked a stake into her waistband, and slipped outside.

“You came.”

Spike carelessly flicked away his cigarette and looked at her with a cool gaze. He didn’t straighten an inch from his leaned position, in some obvious form of defiance she couldn’t quite pin down. “Thought about not.”

“I figured you would.” Knowing Spike, he’d probably gone back and forth so many times he’d made the air dizzy.

He pursed his lips, looking past her. “Dru’s brassed.”

Buffy raised a brow. “And that’s different from before how?”

“More brassed,” he amended.

Was she supposed to be sorry? He was the one who’d offered to hang around.

Spike must’ve caught her unsympathetic expression; he rolled his eyes and finally pushed himself away from the loading dock door. “It’s safe enough to muck about now. Where to?”

Wasn't that just the million-dollar question. Buffy sighed. “Well, I was kind of hoping you could help with that part. Know where I can find a witch coven around here or somebody who knows about time travel?”

Spike leveled her with a flat stare and she had the strong impression he was going to reiterate the  _I’m not going to help you if you’re in over your head_  portion of their conversation from last night (as she was pretty sure her entire situation qualified as just that). Instead, he shrugged. “The places I know aren’t joints I’d fancy taking a Slayer to, luv.”

A shiver crawled up her spine as she recalled Willow telling her about some of her sessions with Rack in his invisible office, the warlock twisting Willow’s desires and compulsions for his own sick pleasure. “They aren’t places I want to go, either.”

Spike eyed her speculatively. “Bad history there?”

“You could say that.”

“Didn’t take you for the dabbling sort.”

Buffy recoiled. “I’m not.” When he gave her a still dubious look, she added, “It wasn’t me. A friend of mine had a… problem.”

Spike snorted. “Bloody magic. Nothing good ever comes of it.” His gaze turned slightly mocking, slightly amused as he looked at her. “You’re pretty much the case in point, luv.”

Buffy shrugged stiffly, bitterness welling in her. “Well, it seems to have worked out just peachy for you.”

The easy agreement she expected never appeared. Instead, Spike’s gaze darkened and a strange tension ran through his leather-clad frame. “Seems that way,” he said finally.

Buffy stared at him, her breath catching her in throat. Had she missed something?

But Spike didn't seem inclined to fall prey to interrogation. He strode past her with an impatient growl, his duster snapping around him. “C’mon, Slayer. Moonlight’s burning.”

Buffy made an incredulous sound but took several quick strides to catch up to him. “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t matter if we don’t even know where we’re going.”

There was a beat of silence, then Spike muttered, “Have a contact in Harlem who can probably find you a white hat witch or two.” He paused briefly, mid-step, giving her a quick survey from top to toe. “You don’t much look like a fang chaser, but at least you’ve got some scars to hold up the idea.” He flicked his pierced brow upward, his gaze zeroing in on her neck. “Had a couple close calls, did you?”

Buffy swallowed, hand automatically rising to cover the right side of her throat beneath her loose hair. “A couple.” Her mouth twisted. “Mostly your family.”

Spike outright stopped this time, and his hand darted out to shove hers away. Before she could protest, his grip had shifted to roughly grab the back of her neck and he’d stepped forward, dipping his head to her throat and sniffing intently. Only the fact that he was still wearing his human guise kept her from immediately shoving him away. Instead, she forced herself to stand still as gusts of cool air hit the most sensitive areas of her skin, her senses screaming chaotically in warning and arousal. If there was any previous doubt that loving two vampires had severely screwed up her instincts, then it was gone now. And god, he wasn’t touching her nearly enough. She had a sudden, terrible desire to grab Spike’s duster and pull him tight against her before directing his full mouth against hers where it belonged. She didn’t think Spike would mind. And she had to get her fill of him while she could.

It was a now-constant reminder in the back of her mind…  _while she could_. A piece of her suspected that—if she managed to get back to her time—she wouldn’t probably remember any of this. Remember  _them_. It would be a different her, with a different past. Buffy’s unexpected vacation in 1977 was now just stolen time in a world off-track. What she did here with her heart and her body… well, that probably didn’t matter, in the end. It made her feel greedy and desperate and ten different kinds of conflicted.

She stayed locked in a terrible stasis of indecision—shove Spike away or tug him forward—until he took the ruling from her, releasing her neck and stepping back. Annoyance covered his features.

“So, Peaches and Batface both got a taste of you, and not me?” His nose wrinkled, making him look like a petulant little boy. “And Drac, if I’m not mistaken. What was that wanker doing in your neck of the woods?”

Buffy managed a shrug, unreasonably disappointed that Spike had stepped away. “He heard of me.” Then she joined the vampire in his disgusted look. “And, just for the record, it’s really gross how you know all that. What, is my neck like some kind of peed-on telephone pole?”

Spike snorted and started walking again. “It’s the saliva, Slayer. Gets sealed in there. Wouldn’t be able to pick out a stranger, but I know family.”

“And Dracula?”

“Know that bugger, too.” He scowled. “Owes me eleven quid.” His gaze sharpened on her. “Wait, the Prince of Ponciness came to see you?”

“Yep.”

“You stake him?”

“Twice.”

Spike grinned. “Good on you.”

“Didn’t seem to matter. He just kept doing this seriously annoying thing where he undusted.”

“Yeah, he’s got a load of stupid gypsy tricks like that. I bloody well  _hate_  the bats rot.”

Buffy's mouth quirked upward. “Good thing he clearly doesn’t like to share secrets. If all vampires started undusting, I think I’d have to start carrying a blowtorch.”

Spike arched a brow at her. “Blowtorch?”

“Mhmm. I doubt even Mister Prince of Darkness guy could reform if his ashes were crispy-fried.”

Spike laughed, his rumbling voice mirthful and unabashed. He shook his head at her as he motioned them down into a subway entrance. “Christ, Slayer. You’re a hell of a woman.”

Buffy stopped dead in her tracks, all the blood draining from her face as his voice echoed back to her from another time, insistent and fierce and brimming with love. “What did you say?”

Spike gave her a quizzical look that dropped into irritated embarrassment at her panicked expression. “What? Can’t a bloke admire a Slayer having fun? You’re usually an annoyingly uptight bunch.”

Another sideways feeling crashed into her. Fun? God, she hadn’t thought of slaying as  _fun_  in years. Not since high school. Not since… well, Faith, probably, had been the last time she’d connected the words. There was a lot of dirty water under her and her sister Slayer’s shared bridge, but those first few weeks after Faith’s arrival in Sunnydale… there had been something there. The beginnings of a friendship, maybe, for two girls who’d bucked destiny when it told them they were the only One.

But there had been a lot betrayals, and Big Bads, and deaths in between now and then. She eyed the vampire now walking ahead of her—one of the original Big Bads in her life—who seemed as at ease with himself as she’d ever seen him. It was an ease that had disappeared when his relationship with Drusilla had crumbled, and then been compounded by the chip and her and his soul until he was run as ragged as she was. Maybe that was one thing he’d keep now that the future as she knew it was going to be kaput.

Following Spike down the subway entrance, Buffy lifted a brow as he looked around for a moment and then leapt over the turnstile with arms spread wide.

“I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to pay.”

Spike just turned an unrepentant grin on her. “Oh, c’mon now, pet. Don’t make me regret taking you out of the uptight category. Live a bit.” He glanced toward the clerk, who was currently occupied pushing tokens to a customer through the indent in the bulletproof glass. “And hurry up, before the bint in charge sees.”

Buffy pursed her lips but obediently followed Spike’s path over the turnstiles, looking back anxiously toward the clerk’s booth when she was done, certain she must’ve been discovered.

“Chrissake, Slayer, remind me not to bring you along anywhere sneaking’s required,” came Spike’s exasperated voice, followed by a rough tug on her arm that pulled her out of sight from the clerk and onto the train platform.

She yanked back her arm in irritation. “I have years of sneaking under my belt. It’s the stealing part that’s new.”

Spike huffed in amusement. “We didn’t steal, luv. Just didn’t pay.”

“There’s not a difference.”

“My person being empty of new valuables says otherwise.”

Buffy fixed him with an icy stare before deciding it wasn’t probably worth the trouble to argue semantics with the amoral vampire. Heck, she’d hardly had any better luck arguing with the moral version of him.

It occurred to her then, as they waited for the train, that she was right back where she’d started two weeks ago, even if it was in a different station and without the having just fallen on Spike’s head situation. She glanced over at Spike’s duster, the leather mostly new and only minimally marred.

“You know what I don’t get?”

Spike gave her a sideways look. “What’s that?”

“How you’ve only killed two Slayers in a century.”

That earned her a disbelieving chuckle. “Well, aren’t you a high maintenance bitch. Two not enough for you? You and I can have another go now, if it suits your fancy.” He turned to her fully, reaching out with whiplash speed to grab her hips and tug her close. “Though it’d be a shame to do you in now,” he murmured huskily, his obvious erection pressing into her stomach, “before I’ve had my fill of that hot cunny of yours.”

Buffy trembled against his touch but forced her voice to remain irritated, even though her pounding heart was a dead giveaway. Luckily, she had lots of practice with the conflict. “Right, because screwing a Slayer is the only thing better than killing one,” she managed caustically.

He arched a brow. “Said that to you before, have I?”

“I didn’t let you finish the sentence, but yeah.”

Spike dipped his head down to her ear and said silkily, “Just because I’ve only killed two doesn’t mean those are the only birds I’ve fought, you dozy bint.” He must’ve felt her muscles startle at that, because he pulled back to regard her with a bemused gaze. “What? The other me never mentioned my other dances?”

Buffy bit her lip. “I never asked.”

Spike snorted and released her as the train came rattling down the tracks to halt at their platform. After the doors opened and they’d both stepped into the heavily graffitied and mostly deserted car, he turned back to her with casual consideration. “Almost had my second back in ’24, but a fyarl surprised her when the chit was well bloodied. Took her down right in front of me.” He snarled. “I ripped the stupid blighter’s head off, but he still took the kill.”

“Anyone else see it?”

“Not a soul or otherwise.”

“Surprised you didn’t claim it then,” Buffy said softly.

Spike looked at her with something akin to offended horror. “Are you off your bird? I’m not gonna take credit for summat I didn’t do.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Spike was soulless, evil, and… honorable. In any other demon, those descriptors would have been an absurdly easy game of ‘which one of these does not belong.’ Except Spike never played by the rules. Not before, and apparently not now, either. He fought dirty and honorably in equal measure.

Buffy sighed and stared out the filthy train windows as the dark tunnels careened by. “You’re a walking contradiction, you know that?”

“Been called far worse, Slayer.”

 

***

 

The Slayer’d been quiet for a long, torturous minute. It was taking pretty much all his willpower not to give up the charade of nonchalance and just have his way with her in the train car. His gaze flitted around the place. That bench seat there in the corner would work fine, if the little granny nearby would bugger off. Eating her would solve that problem, of course, but he suspected that would also take the Slayer out of the mood. Eh, he’d just ignore the granny then while he ravished Buffy from top to toe.

The thought made him scowl. Couldn’t his brain even bloody  _pretend_  to fantasize about killing her somewhere in there?

It wasn’t that he’d stopped wanting to kill her. He suspected, in fact, that his obsolete future self—no matter how poncy and white hat he’d gotten—had never grown out of that. Wasn’t exactly something that could be turned off, the demon’s reaction to Slayer blood nearby.

And Buffy’s pulsed so deliciously.

There was an odd tick to it tonight, though; an inconsistent rise and fall of rates as she battled some kind of internal anxieties. And she had an air of resignation, besides. It wasn’t the kind of tired he was used to—not that nice Slayer deathwish come to the fore (although he was a bit surprised at the absence, considering Buffy’s age)—but a similar, lingering sort of wearied acceptance, twinned with an edge of recklessness. Not hard to suss out its source, in the end. Buffy thought her future was gone because she’d spilled the beans wrong.

It certainly did wonders for a bloke’s ego to learn that just him changing up a few things could so radically alter a Slayer’s timeline. He eyed Buffy’s silent form.

“Sort of surprised you’re not trying to con me into running the future your way.”

Buffy turned to him, startled, her arm banded around one of the holding rails. “What?”

“You know, use those feminine wiles to make me hop to and let Dru kick me to the curb, et cetera and so on.”

That made her lips quirk up. “Right. Because trying to force you to do something never sends you running in the opposite direction.”

So that was her game, was it? His eyes narrowed as the edges of anger surged through him. “If you think I’m going to–”

“I don’t think anything,” Buffy interrupted sharply. Her expression turned sardonically affectionate. “Believe me, I’ve learned there’s no way to predict what you’ll do.”

Spike settled back slightly, tension easing. “That right?”

“Always.” Her gaze turned distant. “When you came back last year, I never thought…” She shook her head. “Never in a million years... But you did.”

He blinked. “Was that sentence supposed to make even a whit of sense?”

Her eyes slid over him and then away. “No.”

“Right then.”

They fell into silence again. It made him antsy and uneasy. There wasn’t supposed to be a world in existence where a master vampire could stand peaceably next to a Slayer. Never mind the Slayer with the Slayer of Slayers. But Buffy made it too bloody easy, everything in her stance reflecting a kind of familiarity with his presence that was unnerving.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Christ, the chit was almost as skinny as the holding rail she was grasping. Of course, she’d probably been living on scraps these last couple of weeks, but even that shouldn’t have put her frame in its current state. When they’d shagged, he’d been able to feel every one of her ribs. Good thing where they were going would get her fed up on the side. He had half a mind to order her the whole menu and make her sit until she ate it all. With that Slayer metabolism, she could pack it in.

He found himself irritated at her future version of him. Hadn’t that Spike taken care of her at all? He had a sodding century’s worth of experience making sure his woman was eating, and he didn’t imagine even a Slayer’s stubbornness held a candle to Dru’s mad tantrums.

“How long have I been dead?”

A deep line creased Buffy’s brow, but he could tell she understood the question. She exhaled a slow breath. “About six months.”

Alright, so she could’ve easily gone to underfed in that time. Still, something rankled. “Didn’t you have anyone who made sure you weren’t wasting away before you pranced off to Africa?”

Buffy’s eyes turned wide and confused, clearly not following his line of thought. “What?”

“You heard me. Was no one bloody well taking care of you before? Ought to have your Watcher’s hide for that, at minimum, for letting his,” he paused his tirade momentarily to amend, “or _her_  Slayer get down to bones.”

Buffy just stared at him. When he didn’t even blink, she seemed to snap to after a minute, looking entirely baffled. “You… you want to know if people in my time were making sure I  _ate_?”

“No,” he growled, “I want to know why they weren’t. Pretty bloody obvious which side of the coin things landed on.”

He had apparently rendered the Slayer speechless because she continued to stare. “Um,” she managed finally, unsteadily, “I guess… well, Dawn would mention it sometimes, but…”

“Dawn was your Watcher?”

Another startled look. “No,” Buffy said slowly, “Dawn’s my little sister.”

So the Slayer had family, then. Bit unusual, but considering that this Slayer was so far unorthodox down to her toes, it surprised him less than it would’ve with any of the others. Still, he scowled. “So your brat sis would mention it but not your mum or dad?”

Buffy’s expression turned pained, though she hid it quickly. Seemed he’d hit a sore spot. “Haven’t seen my dad in years and my…” She trailed off, turning away from him. “My mom died a while ago.” Unexpectedly, she shifted again, back his way. “She liked you a lot.”

Now it was his turn to be astonished. “Your mum liked me?”

“Yeah. You used to sit and have hot chocolate with her and talk about… well, I don’t actually know what you guys used to talk about.”

And here he’d thought Buffy’s future couldn’t possibly sound any weirder. He’d been wrong. He, William the Bloody, had been chums with a Slayer’s mum.

“Her name was Joyce,” the Slayer added softly. Then she took a deep breath, seemingly readying herself for something. “Look. I don’t know if I’ll remember any of this when I get back to my time, so…” She paused, biting her lip so deliciously that he found himself entirely unable to not urge her on.

“So?”

“So,” Buffy continued hesitantly, “just… will you just remember that for me? That part?”

He was pretty sure he’d lost the entire plot of the conversation now. “You want me to remember that future me who won’t bloody exist had hot chocolate and palled around with your mum?”

Buffy nodded at his assuredly bewildered expression. “Yes. Please.”

Oh hell, the chit just had to add the ‘please’ in there, didn’t she? He shifted uncomfortably. “Alright. I suppose I can do that. Remember, I mean.”

“Thank you.”

When they fell into silence again, he let it stand for several minutes, a million half-formed questions boiling inside him. Finally, he burst out with a violent, “Why?”

“Huh?”

He waved his hands in exasperation. “Why’s it matter that I remember this thing about your mum?”

Buffy seemed to chew over that for a minute. “Because it mattered to her,” she said eventually, her voice heavy with the weight of memory, “and the people left are supposed to be the ones who remember things. Except there might not be anyone now. And… and those memories belong to you as much as they belonged to her.”

Something strange squeezed his chest and, for a moment, he couldn’t help but remember his own mum. He’d managed not to think of her much for the last several decades, but now he couldn’t help but picture her at her best, smiling at some of his god-awful verse. Then, as usually happened, his thoughts turned to his mother’s last moments—both of them—and he clenched his fists.

Fuck. This feelings sharing rubbish couldn’t go on. He had to remind this Slayer just who she was dealing with.

“I killed my mum,” he said harshly. “Not sure I’m the best one to keep count of your fond memories.”

But to his shock, Buffy just nodded, her green eyes unbearably soft. “I know. You told me.”

Spike’s entire body stilled in terrified surprise. He’d  _told_  her? No, he couldn’t have possibly told her… not everything. “I…”

“You turned her, because she was sick,” Buffy said, in a damningly gentle tone, “then she came back not your mom, so you killed her.”

 _Bloody hell._  He hadn’t even told Dru the whole length of it. But he’d told the Slayer? Why in god’s name would he tell _her_? Alright, so the Slayer’s mum, who he was supposedly good chums with, had died. Maybe it had been a thing, them swapping sob stories. Although he was baffled as to why she didn’t seem bothered by it. Even  _he_  was bloody bothered by it, when he’d done far nastier things that still sat prettily against his non-existent conscience.

Christ, his head hurt.

He pointedly ignored the Slayer for the rest of the train ride.


	12. Harlem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to yellowb for helping keep my characters from getting lost in thought.

Spike had been flat-out ignoring her since she’d brought up his mother. When the train stopped a few stations later, he swept onto the platform without a single glance in her direction, a muscle ticcing violently along his jaw and his body telegraphing the unmistakable vibe of ‘pissed off vampire'. Sighing, Buffy followed his leather-clad form up the stairs and onto the street.

Almost predictably, they were in yet another non-pretty piece of New York. Buffy was beginning to suspect that ‘pretty’ was, in general, not something people called the Big Apple in 1977. At first glance, the storefronts all looked to be shuttered, barred, or so rundown that no one would probably bother stealing from them anyway. The sidewalks were wide and mostly empty—excepting a burning trash barrel here and there, the odd hooker, and small smatterings of pedestrians who all eyed her and Spike warily as they passed. It was a weird disconnect from the typical city tendency to pretend everyone else didn’t exist, and it didn’t take Buffy more than a minute to realize why: she and Spike were the only white faces in what appeared to be a predominantly black neighborhood. And if the crowd around a heavily decorated Black Panther Party meeting place was any indicator, this was an era where racial tensions had zoomed past ‘mildly uncomfortable’ and straight into some pre-Kenny Loggins-style ‘danger zone'.

Luckily, something that was probably lethal-looking and Spike-shaped kept anyone from outright commenting, and Buffy carefully fixed her attention away from narrow stares and toward the graffiti and yellowed posters that were painted and pinned up everywhere, mostly unreadable in the dark. One illustration was clear as day, however; a massive, looming, spray-painted portrait of a grinning grim reaper with ‘Welcome to Fear City’ scrawled in an ominous angled script above it.

Oh yeah, this place was just barrels of fun.

Distracted, Buffy nearly ran smack-dab into Spike’s suddenly still form in the middle of the sidewalk, his body turned to face her. He halted her with a hurting grip on her shoulders, his blue eyes hard and unforgiving.

“Mind your gawking, Slayer. I've had more collisions with you than I care to."

The nearly snarled words hit her like a punch to the stomach. Oh, how well she knew  _this_ particular dance. She’d made Spike feel vulnerable and exposed, and now he was lashing out the way he knew best—by throwing her screw-ups directly in her face. He’d always been really, really good at that.

The asshole.

She angrily shrugged away his grip from her shoulders and stepped back. “Trust me, if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

Spike’s cold harshness faded, an unfairly sexy line drawing down his brow. “Wouldn’t you?” he queried quietly.

Buffy barely avoided rolling her eyes. God, his mood was more mercurial than a roomful of PMS’ing baby Slayers. “What would be the point?” She motioned widely with her arms to interrupt as he opened his mouth, exasperation filling her tone. “Assuming Lloyd sent me here again, if I told you about the future, you’d still try to find a way to stay with Drusilla; and if I didn’t, you’d just end up dust like are you already are. Either way, you’re not around in 2003. Not really feeling the incentivizing portion of the re-do.”

She watched Spike freeze, both of them realizing at the same time what’d slipped from her mouth. A storm of emotions crossed Spike’s face before he formed it into a neutral mask.

“So I didn’t make it much past the turn of the century, then,” he said lowly. “Always figured it for a long ways out—whenever you were from. But looks like my life went to hell in a hand basket right quick.”

Buffy’s throat tightened. “Well, you did take a giant literal chunk of hell with you.” And god, she was still so proud of him for that. She took a deep, shuddering breath as months of desperate, dashed hope coursed through her. She turned away from him as her voice continued speaking without her permission. “I went to get you right before Christmas, you know. You were going to be my Christmas present.”

There was silence for a long moment, punctuated only by the lazy passing by of cars, then—to Buffy's surprise and complete humiliation—Spike's low chuckle met her ears. She spun back to him with a deathglare.

“Is that  _funny_  somehow?”

Spike regarded her with a twisted smile as he dug a cigarette from his duster pocket. “Only in a hitting below the belt kinda way, pet.” He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, shaking his head. “I mean, sod it all, Slayer, you got anything else laying in wait to sucker punch me with? It’s bad enough that I’m not trying to kill you, but can’t you at least let me hate you a little?”

A small laugh escaped before she could help it. “I could say the same for me.”

He lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“Uh, yeah. This current time you is evil, Spike."

He lifted his cigarette butt to her in praise. “Ta, luv.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Spike’s small grin undid her. “You’re impossible.”

His grin faded as he regarded her speculatively. “Don’t think I’m the impossible one here. A Slayer going back in time while trying to rescue her demon lover sounds pretty bloody impossible to me.”

Buffy snorted. “Yeah, well, impossible is pretty much my middle name. If you think it can’t be done, Buffy Summers will do it. And not in the fun way.”

Spike shrugged, tossing away his cigarette as he swaggered forward, again leading them down the street (which was apparently Malcolm X Boulevard, if the signs were to be believed). “You can make anything fun if you try hard enough.”

Buffy fell into step beside him almost automatically. “I really don’t want to know in what possible way a demon applies that idea.”

There was a pause. “No, you probably don’t, Slayer.”

There was no apology in his voice. Not that she’d really expected there to be, but it would've helped soothe the insistent Slayer voice in her head. The one that knew exactly the kind of devastation and darkness the man next to her was likely wreaking on a daily basis.

Once upon a time, she never would have been able to look past the immediate horror of Spike’s current lifestyle. But the last year in Sunnydale had done a lot to shake her foundations in pretty much every way they could be shook. Watching Spike drape his smoking body over a cross had turned her world upside down; standing in a basement surrounded by the dust of his First-induced killings had broken it entirely. She could still hear Spike’s resigned, shaking voice as he stared at the wooden shovel handle in her grip.  _Do it quick, okay? He said you’d do it._  That moment had been an epiphany. The First had expected that she wouldn’t see past the lives Spike had taken—that her in-the-moment moral duty would blind her to the wizard behind the curtain that was playing them all. It was a lesson that was now burned into her brain.

So, sure, Spike was a remorseless killing machine in 1977, but he’d always been that by the time she’d met him twenty years later. Condemning him for it now wasn’t useful (and she had the bad feeling that he’d probably go do something more awful than usual just to make a point if she pushed the issue).

Still, knowing all of that didn’t stop the guilt churning in her stomach.

As if reading her mind, Spike’s amused voice broke into her thoughts. “Going to break a sweat with how hard your noggin is working, pet. Penny for your thoughts?”

Buffy met his curious gaze with wry resignation. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

Spike pursed his lips, irritation lacing his voice. “Know me that bloody well, do you?”

“I do, actually.”

His eyes narrowed in challenge. “Try me.”

Well, he had asked for it. “I was thinking about how much happier I would be if you didn’t eat people while I’m here.”

Spike halted mid-step.

Buffy regarded him steadily. “Told you that you didn’t want to know.”

Anger burned bright in Spike's expression. “And I told  _you_  what I was offering last night. Don’t seem to remember a change of diet in there anywhere.”

“And I’m not asking for one,” Buffy snapped. “You wanted my thoughts and there they are. I’m a Slayer, Spike. I can’t help it that you not killing would make me happy.”

“Suppose it’s a good thing I don’t give a toss about making you happy, then,” he all but growled.

Buffy regarded him wearily. “Do you care even a shred about the people you murder?”

Some of his anger shifted abruptly to humor. “Murder? Christ, you Slayers are such human-centric little Puritans. We’re not sodding human, same way as you’re not sodding cows. Can call a vamp evil for loads of reasons, but diet shouldn’t be the one you hang your cross on.”

Well, that was definitely one way to look at the world. When had Spike started to empathize with people? She couldn’t really place a specific moment. It had seemed to come sporadically, like when he’d helped fyarl Giles, or when he’d punched Tara. Maybe individuals were always an exception. The soul had changed all of that, of course—made him enough human that his cow philosophy permanently shifted to ‘I was an evil murderer’. Buffy felt her heart clench in realization. Clinically, she’d understood Spike's guilt before, but now she  _got_  it. The man wasn’t just crying for the sins of the demon—the demon itself had its entire point of view shattered, with no real way to reconcile itself with the soul's presence. No wonder Spike had gone insane. No wonder a released Angelus had been so pissed.

Spike eyed her suspiciously when she didn't respond, all his metaphorical hackles up and bristling. “You gonna come over all righteous on me when I go drain a bloke or bird dry tonight? If so, luv, I think we’re done here, you and me.”

“I didn’t before, did I?”

He shrugged. “We weren’t friendly before.”

Is that what they were now? God, she so didn’t have the energy to worry about trying to define whatever it was that they had. She sighed. “Look, I hate that you’re killing people, but… in some twisted, horrible way, the deaths don’t count.”

Spike arched a startled brow. “Come again?”

She met his gaze squarely. “In 2003, you’ve killed these people already. The deaths are done.”

“So any wanker I don’t off is a victory?”

“It is.”

Spike mulled that over, eyes narrowed. “What if I’m not killing the same sorry sods this time around?”

It was a good, reasonable, incredibly complicated question that she had absolutely no answer for. “I don’t know,” she said softly, “but I’ll go crazy if I think about it too long. So I’m just not.”

Spike cocked his head at her. “You’re treading a bloody thin tightrope there, Slayer.”

“I’ve tread worse.”

Spike regarded her appraisingly for a long moment, then shrugged and started walking again. “Right then.”

A few blocks down, he stopped yet again, this time to motion across the street to where a cheap and hideously yellow outdoor sign was lit up, blaring the words  _Sylvia’s Restaurant_  into the night. “That’s the spot.”

Buffy knew she didn’t contain her disbelief well. “We’re going to get a witchy contact from,” she peered at the sign more closely, “a  _soul food_  restaurant?”

“That we are, luv. Once we get a few things straight.” He fixed her with a hard look. “Know how you Slayers like to be take-charge kind of bints?”

She eyed him warily. “Yes?”

“You pull that here, and I’ll snap your neck.” His voice was flat, heavy with simple promise.

Buffy regarded him silently for a long moment before nodding assent. She could deal with that; this wasn't her mission to lead. “What else?”

Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth in a suggestive smirk. “Letting me get in a fresh nibble or two of your pretty neck wouldn’t go amiss. It’s a bit risky selling you as a fang chaser without. All your scars are years old, I’d wager.”

Buffy gave him a hard look. “They are, and I intend to keep them that way.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Do women really go around begging you to bite them?”

Spike looked at her, amused. “Not just birds. Blokes, too.”

The image of Riley’s bitten-up torso swam to the forefront. She’d been so stupid about him. Several times. “Idiots. They’re just asking to get turned.”

Spike shrugged uncaringly. “A million ways to die, pet. Yours truly is just one of them.”

The look in his eyes dared her to comment. Apparently, she’d irritated him enough that he felt the need to flaunt his slaughtering status in her face. Oh, goody. Through sheer force of will and years of exposure to the irritant in question, as well as her monk-induced (but still incredibly irritating) sister, Buffy avoided taking the bait. Barely. Instead, she gritted her teeth and said tightly, “So, final answer: zero biting.”

Spike eyed her for a long moment, then said curtly, “You’re not waiting out here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not your bloody errand boy. You want answers, you can take the risk with me.”

A flash of understanding broke through her rising desire to pop him one. Spike was, in fact, taking what was probably a really big risk for her—particularly with his status as Slayers of Slayers less than a month old. If anyone found out he was helping a Slayer instead of killing one, he was likely to be ostracized like he had been in Sunnydale. In a best case scenario. “I wasn’t going to suggest that,” she said, then paused. “What if someone realizes I’m a Slayer?”

Some of the aggressive tension went out of Spike’s shoulders at her acquiescence. “Not a single demon would mistake you for Nikki, pet. Wrong coloring, for one.”

“Not to mention, she’s dead and you’re wearing her coat,” Buffy added shortly, unable to keep her eyes from Spike’s duster.

“That I am,” he agreed proudly. “And it’s getting around that the new Slayer’s off in the Orient.”

“I’ll still ring Slayer-y alarm bells around the place.”

“Not in there you won’t. Syl’s got all sorts of wards up—they make my skin itch, but they’re right effective.”

“Effective at dulling spidey senses?”

“You and I aren’t the only types where sensing matters, Slayer. It’s a lot easier to keep the peace when everyone’s warning bells have gone tits up.”

“Okay, great. Warning bells not a problem. Check.” Buffy straightened, looking over toward the restaurant. “Shall we go?”

“No.” Spike’s expression edged back into a glare. “Another thing. You’re going to eat every bloody thing I put in front of you in there.”

Buffy blinked dumbly at him. What was with his sudden interest in her diet? He seemed to be taking it as a personal affront that she was skinny. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” His nostrils flared and, all at once, she was reminded of his same expression on the train.  _Was no one bloody well taking care of you before?_

Warm understanding filled her. “Okay, fine," she agreed, managing to sound far more aggravated than she felt. "Within reason."

“Brilliant. Last bit then: while we're in there, you’re mad about me, alright?”

“Oh, I’m very familiar with being mad about you,” Buffy said dryly. "And at you, and toward you. You and 'mad' are pretty much best buds in my book."

Spike rolled his eyes. “You are really fucking irritating, you know that?”

“Kettle, pot.”

Snorting, Spike stepped forward and tugged her tight against his side, his cool hand snaking around into the far front pocket of her jeans. “Did you drive future me this barmy?”

Buffy swallowed at his nearness, looking up into amused blue eyes. “Barmier,” she whispered.

A small smile twitched at the edges of his lips. Then he bent his head down and captured her mouth in a breath stealing, toe curling kiss that nearly made her want to sob with shocked relief.  _This_  was the Spike kiss she remembered; deep, devouring, and unbarred, as if nothing else existed in the entire world except for her. Buffy shifted so that her right arm was tight around his slim waist and returned his attentions with a needy gasp as his tongue slipped in to battle hers. When he finally released her, she was dizzy—from lack of oxygen or just Spike, she wasn’t sure.

“What was that for?” she managed once her lungs cooperated again.

Spike looked away from her, his expression discomfited and his chest heaving with unnecessary breath. “Just wanted to,” he said roughly. “Don’t make a big deal, Slayer. It didn’t mean anything.”

Disappointment flooded through before she could help it. How many times had she told him the exact same thing during their affair, when some small bit of unintentional affection had leaked out?  _It didn’t mean anything. Stop thinking about it. Shut up._

“Right.” She took a shuddering breath as Spike led them across the street to the restaurant, his arm still tight around her waist. There was a cool look of unconcerned arrogance on his face now, though—his Big Bad mask at the fore as they entered his world.

She licked her now kiss-swollen lips and plastered a vapid, Buffybot-Harmony-love-child-worthy smile on her face as Spike opened the restaurant door for her, his brow rising at her shifted demeanor and his eyes following the circuit of her tongue.

Buffy stepped through with a flirty swish of her hips, aware of the patrons staring her way—half of whom she was pretty sure weren’t human.  _Down the rabbit hole we go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun story: in 1975, the NYC Police Dept distributed potentially thousands of pamphlets with covers like the graffiti I described - a grinning grim reaper with the heading "Welcome to Fear City" - supposedly as a visitor's survival guide (no, really). In reality, the mayor at the time planned to make significant cuts to the police dept and firefighters during a time when NYC was already not a safe place to be and... this was the unions' answer. Isn't fear mongering fun?
> 
> Of course, the graffiti in Darkling has a much more subversive placement in Harlem, where race riots were barely yesterday and where the Black Panthers were flourishing and inter-city relations not so much.
> 
> In case you're curious, here's more info on the "survival guide": http://gawker.com/fear-city-the-insane-pamphlet-the-nypd-used-to-terrori-1678292956
> 
> Also, if 1977 New York sounds sort of apocalyptically rough... well, the late 70's have been called NYC's Dark Ages for good reason. But, hey, the vampires had fun!


	13. Soul Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvia’s in Harlem is a real place (which started rocketing toward fame in 1979), and Sylvia herself was a well-known and – by all accounts – gracious lady. She was, I can almost guarantee, not Darkling’s Sylvia.

Apparently Buffy had a flare for acting. Spike had walked through Harlem with a Slayer and entered Syl’s with some kind of bubble-headed, brainless bimbo. She’d practically bounded in the door, then swung around with a sickeningly perky, “Oh, Blondie Bear, this is so cute! Where should we sit?”

He almost hauled off and bagged his third Slayer right then and there.  _Blondie Bear?_  Fucking hell.

At the same time, there was something almost disturbingly adorable about Buffy acting this way, and the mischievous sparkle in her eyes made her face look brighter and years younger—more like a cute young bird than a hard-bitten warrior. And he had no bloody clue why that was so appealing. He was never the kind to go for  _cute_. Even as a useless human tosser, he’d gone for the dark, sensual types. Seemed his prick had turned temporary traitor on that front, though. He adjusted himself with a grimace as he followed Buffy’s swinging hips down the aisle.

A humanesque grislock turned in his seat to follow Buffy’s gait (per usual for his kind, he reeked of fish), his nictitating membrane sliding down, and Spike let loose a low warning growl. The grislock quickly snapped his gaze away. The other patrons got the message and similarly averted their eyes as Spike passed. No one wanted to start a brawl in Syl’s.

Even this time of night, the place was nearly full to bursting. It was an unassuming joint, deep and narrow, with a standard long counter to the right and an open kitchen right behind. If you sat at the counter, the cook’d just turn around from the oven and hand over your plate. Syl herself was cooking tonight, snapping out quick orders over the din in that long drawl of hers. A sizeable woman, she looked like a bit of southern dining that’d wandered into the wrong zip code—an easy, delicious-smelling meal (the bird probably never got the reek of fried chicken out of her clothes). But no small number of patrons had learned the hard way that she was no misplaced Georgia Peach. News of the troublemakers she'd complacently sucked into black rifts as they screamed bloody murder had made the rounds through the years. Rumor was that she had a touch of the Void in her veins, some kind of living conduit or the like.

Bottom line was, you didn’t fuck around with Syl. But if you needed information, she was the end all be all.

Spike slid into a recently vacated back corner table and Buffy joined him a second later, a girlishly coy smile quirking her lips as she slid onto his lap and leaned back. Her long tresses nearly obscured his face until he brushed them away, his nostrils filling with her sweet, musky scent. The weight of her warm little body in his lap was almost excruciating and– Christ, did she have to grind against him like that? One more hip swivel and he was going to say to hell with a potential grisly death via an irate Syl and fuck Buffy right here.

Luckily, one of Syl’s waiting girls dropped by just then, her dark skin flaring deliciously against her crisp white uniform. She eyed them somewhat warily, almost startling when Buffy offered a dimwittedly chirped, “Hi there!”

The girl gave Buffy a quick run-down, her mouth twitching in dismissive amusement. “What can I get you?”

Spike tapped the menu with his knuckles, rings rapping loudly against the formica table. “Half a chicken, luv. And some of your grits. And a rack of ribs.” He paused thoughtfully. “And a touch of the peach cobbler.”

When the girl had nodded and turned away, Buffy gave him an incredulous look. “You expect me to eat all of that?”

“Every sodding bite,” he said firmly.

“That is not ‘within reason.’”

“Trust me, pet, once you start eating Syl’s cooking, you won’t want to stop.”

Buffy lifted a brow. “Is it cursed?”

Laughter bubbled up in his chest. “Experienced that before, have you? And no.”

“No curses that I know of, although one of the lunch ladies in high school tried to poison everyone.”

“Sounds like a kick.”

That earned him a dirty look and he chuckled, shifting his hands down to cradle her hips. “So what’s with the dumb floozy routine?” he asked with quiet amusement. “Told you to act mad, not lose IQ points.” His eyes narrowed. “And if you ever call me ‘Blondie Bear’ again, I’ll rip your lungs out.”

Buffy gave a light, authentic peal of laughter and wrapped her arms around his neck as she grinned at him. “I actually borrowed that from one of your exes.”

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “What?”

“Before me, you dated a vamp named Harmony. One of my high school classmates. She’s not exactly a Mensa candidate.”

Spike felt his lip curl in disgust. “I dated a fucking air-brained fledge?” Had his future self lost  _all_  self-respect? The idea of loving Buffy was cockeyed enough, but at least she was his equal. And, despite himself, he could too easily imagine how future him had fallen for her—this slip of a woman who wasn’t just powerful, but a force to be reckoned with, with her sharp tongue and gorgeous body, and presence hotter and more burning than the bloody sun. Yeah, chasing Buffy he understood. But to chase after an idiotic fledge?

“I think you just kept her around for the sex,” Buffy said dryly.

“I could pick up most any bird I wanted for that,” he said in annoyance. “Why’d I choose her?”

Buffy shrugged. “I guess you liked something about her. She  _was_ pretty. Long blonde hair, big boobs.”

A sudden suspicion took him. “And about your age?” he asked slowly.

“Yep.”

He raised a brow. When Buffy just returned his look blankly, he cocked his head at her. Did the chit really not get the connection? “Blonde, pretty, your age. Sound familiar, pet?”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure what…” Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. You think you dated Harmony Kendall because she reminded you of  _me_?” She shook her head in disbelief. “No way. You still hated me then.”

“Don't have to like someone to want to shag them senseless,” he murmured sardonically, thrusting his insistent erection up into the swell of her arse. “Case in point.”

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat. “I guess that’s true.” Her gaze turned distant and slightly sad for a moment, until she shook it off and glanced around the restaurant. “Anyway, what’re we doing?”

“Sitting, luv. And when the food comes, you’ll be eating.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Captain Literal. I mean for the… other.”

“Just be patient. Syl’ll be out to see us eventually. She stops by all the tables.”

Buffy wiggled impatiently on his lap and he bit back a groan. “I’m not great with waiting.”

“You’ll survive.”

His advice was hard enough to take for himself, with Buffy invading his senses and torturing his cock like she was. Still, he managed to hold off until the food came, by way of convulsively fiddling with the sugar packets. Then the fucking tease wiggled on his lap  _again_  and had the nerve to moan almost pornographically as she bit into a piece of chicken. His self-restraint snapped.

Instinctively, he bent his head forward and bit down on the long tendon on the left side of her neck with blunt teeth, holding her in a clamped grip just short of breaking the skin. His arms slid warningly tight around her waist.

As intended, Buffy froze, her heartbeat skyrocketing and her breath exhaling in a short, shocked pant. The chicken piece she was holding dropped to the plate, but she made no motion to get out of his grip. Seemed she’d taken his neck snapping threat seriously.  _Good girl._

Grinning, he licked his way down Buffy’s pulsing jugular, letting his tongue lave the pliable vein that locked away her ambrosial Slayer blood. His nostrils filled with the telltale adrenaline of her rising anger, joined by a sliver of delectable fear and a clearly unwilling, but heavily perfumed, lacing of arousal.

His grin widened.

When he didn’t bite down on her neck after a few seconds, Buffy seemed to gain her voice, her tone low and dangerous. “ _What_  are you doing?”

Spike casually nibbled up her neck as she stiffened further. “Figured I’d have myself a taste while you have yours,” he growled into her ear.

The scent of her fury bloomed intoxicatingly stronger at his apparent betrayal, both of them knowing she was all but trapped against making a fuss in their public, Slayer-unfriendly environs.

“You  _bastard_ ,” she hissed, sounding incensed and hurt.

It was the hurt that pulled him up short in his teased threatening. Bloody bitch with her proclamations of love. He was supposed to enjoy hurting her, not feel like an absolute wanker.  _Damn it all to hell._  He sighed and pressed a soft kiss to her neck as she instinctively flinched away. “Just having a bit of fun,” he whispered in annoyance. “No need to get your knickers in such a twist.” He glanced around speculatively. “We are giving a good show, though.”

Several of the other restaurant-goers were watching them with attempted discretion and failing miserably, their gazes lingering on his coat and the woman on his lap. One male vamp down the way looked particularly jealous. The bloke was short on looks, so the fang chasers weren’t probably knocking down his pathetic door. Spike glared at him, with a clear  _fuck off_  written in his gaze, and the vamp turned away.

“I guess we are,” Buffy agreed stiffly after a minute, apparently also watching their audience.

When she relaxed slightly in his arms, Spike smirked and whispered a silky, “But I  _am_  going to have a taste,” into her ear.

Her form grew rigid again. “But you said…”

“A taste,” he repeated huskily, letting his left hand wander down to the front of her jeans. It was a shame she was wearing trousers, but he’d worked around harder clothing types. All the rubbish Dru had worn at the turn of the century had taken more than a spot of creative finagling (she’d had a particular fascination with complicated undergarments for a couple bloody long decades), since his princess would fly into a snit if he accidentally damaged any of her favorite underthings. Buffy hadn’t said a cross word when he’d destroyed her knickers in the Watcher’s flat, although they were hideous anyhow. Had she wandered back to her little factory hideaway without any? God, she must’ve. The thought nearly had him bursting from his jeans.

He felt Buffy’s breath stutter as she realized his meaning. “Ohh,” she said breathlessly, in a tone that he suspected was embarrassment.

Then she shifted her hips slightly to give him better access and he barely bit back a surprised laugh. Who’d have thought a Slayer would be all for getting finger fucked in the middle of demon-riddled restaurant? And by a demon, no less. The girl was definitely a bit twisted. Well, not a shock, in the end. She’d fallen in love with him, hadn’t she? Even as whatever horrid ponce his future self had turned out to be, he was still a vampire.

“Keep eating, pet,” he demanded, pulling down her zipper with deliberate laziness.

Haltingly, Buffy picked up the chicken and took a bite, moaning again. God, she was going to kill him.

“You weren’t kidding,” she murmured. “This is incredible.”

He nipped at her earlobe as he finished unzipping her, sliding his hand down into the freed gap. “That it is.” He fingered the hem of her plain cotton panties for a brief moment before dipping below them. “You really need to get better knickers, luv.”

Buffy turned her head toward him with a knowing look. “Why? So you can destroy them?”

He smirked. “Did that plenty, did I?”

“And stole them.”

“Well, at least I hadn’t lost all of my sense, then.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, the motion shifting to a nearly soundless mewl as his fingers found her clit. Her hand almost dropped the chicken and he pulled away slightly in warning.

“Keep eating.”

 

***

 

Whatever ‘being friendly’ meant for them apparently included making food fetishists jealous as she got fingered by Spike in the corner of a semi-hostile restaurant.  _Of course_ it was Spike. It had been Spike who’d screwed her on the Bronze balcony while she stared down at her friends. Spike who’d had her in the alley behind the DMP. Spike who’d taken her against the tree in her own front yard.

And she’d liked it.

He’d known that, too. It was half the reason she suspected he did it. Left to his own devices, she knew he’d preferred being in his bed. Or hers. Somewhere he could worship her the way he wanted to. Somewhere she might be inclined to stay for a while.

This Spike didn’t know any of that, and his little surprised intake of breath when she encouraged his downward exploration told her more clearly than anything that he had just been pushing boundaries and expecting her to try and stop him.

She wasn’t going to stop him. She’d never gotten to explore kink with Spike when she didn’t hate herself. The night before he’d died had been tender and slow and riddled with hesitancy.

It was one thing about soulless Spike that she secretly missed—his arrogantly relentless and assertive attitude. Something she’d needed him to have again against the First. Something that Lloyd twisted in order to throw her back in time.  _What I want is the Spike that's dangerous._

Well, here she was. With that kind of Spike. And he was firmly caressing her clit in public while she polished off a giant chunk of fried chicken. Freud would probably have a field day with this situation.

Spike’s hand dipped slightly lower, and she felt one his digits slide into her rapidly wetting folds. Biting back a moan, she forced herself to swallow the last of the chicken and then reached for a rib, her breath escaping her in an uneven pant. Oh god, how the hell was she going to keep eating when all she wanted to do was throw back her head and ride his fingers until she came? Her brain was going to melt from the struggle.

“You’re evil,” she muttered.

She could feel his grin against the back of her neck. “Always, luv.” A pause, then an innocent, “I could stop, if you like.”

“No.”

“Right answer,” he breathed, curling his digit inside her, seeking out the spongy bundle of nerves that always undid her. She stopped breathing as he brushed them, only his commanding grip on her waist keeping her from arching her back.

“ _Eat_ ,” was Spike’s low demand, his fingers pausing as she again dropped her food back onto the plate.

Whimpering, Buffy set her concentration on the peach cobbler as her lower belly tightened warningly, heat sparking up through her limbs and up her spine. “Oh god.”

“Shh, pet. Just eat.”

“You have a serious hang-up with me and eating,” she managed, biting her lip as she willed her throat to swallow the syrupy peaches, her legs trembling on top of Spike’s.

“I just like filling your holes, luv.” His thrusting finger plunged hard against her walls in emphasis.

“When I can actually think again,” she told him haltingly, shuddering as he thumbed her clit, “remind me to tell you that you’re disgusting.”

“Evil,” he reminded her pleasantly, tapping her clit in a way that nearly sent her off the edge. “And don’t even pretend you mind. We both know better, with the way you fucked my brains out last week.”

She meant to make some kind of scathing reply, except that it was stolen from her as Spike again thrust against the bundle of nerves and her orgasm rippled through her with quaking force. She pinned the cobbler spoon to the table as she spasmed helplessly on Spike’s fingers, lightning sharp pleasure making her dizzy and light-headed as she desperately fought the urge to make noise.

Behind her, Spike groaned deep and low, and she felt his heavy erection thrust up almost involuntarily against her ass. “Fuck."

His fingers removed themselves from her folds and Buffy whimpered. She turned in time to catch him slide his wet fingers through his lips, and saw his eyes cross. “You taste so bloody good,” he growled, gaze snapping to hers with a flash of yellow.

Buffy had the distinct feeling that Spike was about half a second from pouncing on her right then and there, and found herself not particularly inclined to stop him. Except that he suddenly straightened instead, face growing shockingly impassive as his hands flew down to zip up her pants.

“What–”

Spike interrupted her with a quick headshake, eyes flicking sideways in warning. “Incoming,” was his muted warning, his lips barely moving.

As if on cue, a middle-aged, heavy-set black woman appeared, wiping her hands on her smudged apron. Her dark hair was tightly permed and perfectly coifed, and her eyes were set in a sharp, eagle’s eye gaze. An almost suffocating aura of power rolled from her seemingly innocuous form, clearly dampened (most likely by all the wards Spike had mentioned), but still strong enough to make the back of Buffy’s neck crawl in warning.

“Nice coat, honey,” was the woman’s drawling, easy greeting.

Spike smirked at her. “Thanks, luv. Got it off a Slayer.”

“I heard.” The woman’s gaze flickered to Buffy, mildly curious.

Buffy plastered on a Buffybot-bright smile and giggled as she ran her hands down Spike’s lapel. “Isn’t it just so sexy on him?”

“What did I tell you about using your mouth, woman?” Spike said harshly, sneering as he brushed her hands away.

Huh? Buffy blinked, at a loss, and Spike thrust against her almost imperceptibly in hinting. Oh. Stifling the urge to roll her eyes, she winked at him instead, biting her bottom lip coyly. “That you like it full?”

“Right. And I’m busy at the moment, so eat the bloody food and let me talk to Syl.”

Buffy scooped up her cobbler spoon, a hint of mischief taking her. “Yes, master.”

Spike jerked against her, his eyes widening just slightly before he recovered. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Syl with an apologetic, patronizing smile. “Sorry about that, luv. New girl’s a bit of a talker. Still trying to break her in.”

Syl eyed him speculatively. “Never seen you in here with a girl before.”

“My lady’s in a snit. Got tired of sleeping alone.”

To Buffy’s surprise, that made Syl laugh. “Don’t I know how that is. Herb gets fit to be tied when I stay too late here. It’s my love affair, this place.”

“And a damn solid one,” Spike said seriously.

“Aren’t you just the sweet talker?” Syl's smile dropped to something sharp. “What’re you working your charms for now?”

Buffy felt Spike’s hand tighten against her hip. “Hoping you can help me track down a lead.”

“Oh? I suppose you’ve heard the new Slayer’s not around here.”

“Yeah, already heard,” Spike agreed. “Not looking for her at the moment. Looking for a do-gooder magic type, as a matter of fact. Have a… question for them.” When Syl’s expression turned cold, he continued easily, “Not going to harm a hair on their head. You have my word.”

Syl eyed him flatly. “Your kind’s word doesn’t usually mean a hoot in Halifax.”

Spike held her scrutiny unflinchingly. "Not giving you my kind's word, am I? Just mine, Syl. And we both know I'm bloody good for it."

There was a long pause, followed by a purse-lipped, “Mhmm.” After another moment of narrow silence, Syl nodded acquiescence. “Man by the name of Kent Rolands owns a small reliquary near Central Park.” She pulled a pen and order pad from her apron and scribbled an address.

Spike took the pro-offered paper with a small nod. “Ta, pet. What do I owe you?”

Buffy paused, a spoonful of grits midway to her mouth. Spike had to owe this woman something? Why hadn't he told her?  _Why the hell had he agreed to help, knowing that?_

Syl eyed him from top to toe and Spike ran a nervous hand down his duster. “Won’t give you this.”

Syl laughed. “Bless your heart, you think I’m interested in your little trophy?” She waved merrily. “No, I don’t want that wretched thing.” She continued eyeing him possessively, however, and Buffy bristled quietly. Spike’s squeeze on her hip kept her still.

“Those dog tags. Where did you get them?”

Spike blinked in surprise, gaze flicking down to the two silver dog tags around his neck, apparently this era’s version of his silver chained necklaces. “These? Took them off some Arvins in ’63.”

“I’ll take them.” Syl held out a hand expectantly.

Hesitating only a second, Spike pulled the tags over his head and draped them in her waiting palm. “Just for my own curiosity, luv, what d’you want with these bits of steel?”

“I collect them,” she said genially, slipping the tags into her apron pocket.

Talk about weird hobbies.

A sharp hail drew Syl’s attention and she nodded briefly to Spike before striding back behind the counter, attention firmly on some ruckus in the kitchen.

Spike’s hand was on the small of Buffy’s back a moment later, shoving lightly. “Let’s go, pet.”

She nodded silently, sliding off Spike’s lap and getting to her feet. Spike threw a wad of bills onto the table, then wrapped a possessive arm around her waist and swaggered out.

When they were again back in the silent, almost-emptiness of the street, and a safe block away from the restaurant, Buffy let out an explosive breath. “What is she?”

Spike glanced over at her, his expression distracted. “Syl? Not sure, Slayer. Something you don’t want to cross, that’s for damn sure.”

That memo had come through loud and clear. “Is she evil?”

“Not as such.”

“But not good.”

Spike chuckled. “She’s just living her life, pet, same as most other sods on the planet.” He reached into his duster pocket and handed her the scribbled-on order sheet. “Here. You keep good hold of this.”

Buffy slipped it into her jeans pocket, gratitude and guilt tightening her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the information was going to cost you.”

Spike snorted. “Everything costs something.” He waved off her next apology. “Was just a couple of old tags. Don’t worry your head over it.”

"Do you think she really collects them?"

"Not a clue."

Buffy swallowed. “Thank you.”

Spike shifted uncomfortably and didn’t answer, instead lighting a cigarette with one of his small matches. As he breathed out a heavy cloud of smoke, he gave her a side-eyed, hooded glance. “So, luv. Fancy a bit of rough and tumble back at my place?”

Desire wriggled in the pit of her stomach at his purred tone, right on the heels of uncertainty about what exactly the two of them together meant. Spike had asked her that question so many times during their affair, and she'd never answered with anything good. Ironic, now that she was effectively in his position. Wasn't there something about turn-about and fair play? She straightened her shoulders. “So this consorting enemies thing we have going on includes more orgasms?”

Spike smirked at her. “Loads, if all goes well.”

“Are you staying with Drusilla?”

Spike lifted a brow. “Not at the moment. Have a flat not far from your place.”

“You do?”

“Recent acquisition, as it were.”

Oh god. Her stomach turned over queasily. “You killed the tenant.”

Spike’s expression grew flat and combative. “That I did.”

Damn him.  _Damn him_. That was one death which almost certainly hadn’t been there in the previous rendition of this time. And now it was on her head.

Spike watched her defiantly for a moment before softening at her probably obvious distress. “Look, Slayer, the bloke was old. If not me, Mother Nature would’ve come calling soon. Least I made it quick.”

Buffy swallowed down a rush of disgusted anger. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugged, a hard glint in his eyes. “Just being honest. Don’t rightly care if it soothes your conscience or not.”

Buffy sighed, rubbing her temples and desperately reminding herself again that there was probably no use debating morality with this version of Spike. “Should we go to see this Kent guy first?”

Spike flicked away his cigarette. “Best to go fresh tomorrow.” He halted on the sidewalk, looking at her hungrily. “And I’d rather spend the rest of my night feasting on your delicious little cunt.”

Well, when he put it like that…

Buffy sighed. “Let’s go.”

“No need to sound so enthusiastic there, pet,” Spike said, looking offended. “Might think you were going for a painful bit of dental work instead of a brilliant shag.”

Mordant memory quirked up her lips. “Maybe I’m in love with pain. I’m pretty sure you are.”

 

***

 

Spike snorted derisively. In love with pain? Where had she gotten that stupid idea? Wasn’t she supposed to know him? “I like a bit of pain,” he said flatly. “Vampire here. But I don’t love it. If I did, Dru not loving me would be an eternal sodding holiday instead of a –” Spike abruptly stopped talking. Oh bloody hell. Where had  _that_  come from?

Buffy’s luscious lips parted, her expression looking as shocked as he felt at his outburst. She worried her bottom lip in a way that was unfairly distracting. “You… you know Drusilla doesn’t love you?”

The words hit him like a blow.  _You know_ … as if the Slayer’d known it all along, and he’d only sussed it out way after the fact. If fucking only.

“'Course I know it,” he said bitterly. “Known it since…” A flash of memory caught his brain, of finding Angelus shagging Dru shortly after his turning, of his grandsire’s taunting  _Nothing’s yours—not even her_ , of Dru’s blissed expression as Angelus rammed his cock down her throat. “Known it for ages,” he finished lowly. “What the fuck ever made you think I didn’t?”

Buffy shook her head slowly, looking abashed and confused. “It’s just… when she broke up with you in my time, you kept going on about how your love was eternal and crap.”

“Mine is,” he snarled, before realizing the irony of saying that to this particular audience. He’d apparently stopped loving his princess in the future when she'd left him. Hadn’t he? “Did I…” He clenched his fists. “Did I still love her, later on?”

Buffy frowned in thought as they walked toward the subway, finally murmuring, “I don’t know. You did threaten to stake her for me. Had her tied up and everything.”

He stared at her, appalled. “I did?”

“Mhm. You were trying to prove that you loved me.”

Bloody hell. He took a needless breath, trembling. “And did I?”

“Stake her?”

“No. Prove it.”

Buffy's cheeks flushed and she looked away. “Um, no,” she said uncomfortably. “I just thought you were obsessed and delusional. The belief came… that came later.”

He frowned at her, offense rising again. “Well, Jesus H. Christ, woman, what the hell did it take to prove it, then? Did I have to bloody well spell it out in demon corpses while prancing around in my poufy white hat?”

Buffy gave him an incredulous look, the barest edges of a smile flickering on her lips. “Demon corpses?”

“Well, not sure how I could possibly top threatening my sire and love of my unlife for you. Corpse lettering was the second best thing I could dream up.”

Buffy was outright hiding a smile now, although something sad lurked in the edges of her eyes. “Keep dreaming.”

Then her hand darted out and grabbed his, warm fingers sliding easily against his cold ones. He startled at the motion, blinking down at their joined hands before meeting Buffy’s gaze again. She looked nervous, as if he was going to shake off her touch at any moment.

As he fucking should be doing. But Christ, her warm skin felt nice, and it'd been far too long since he and Dru had simply strolled anywhere together like this. She'd been in a wild mood since their arrival in New York, and had been lately far more likely to rip out some sod’s heart and press it into his hands over holding them.

He sighed and briefly squeezed Buffy’s slender fingers. “You are a menace to all that’s right and proper between good and evil, you know that?”

Buffy laughed, a clear bell sound that went straight to his cock. “Me? No, Spike, that’s always been you. I tried to keep you shoved in the ‘evil slayable vampire’ box for years and you—you pain in the ass—would never stay in.”

“Always been a rebel,” he said dryly.

“Always,” Buffy echoed, looking at him with a level of admiration that no Slayer should have bestowed on a demon.

He looked away from her damning gaze and tugged at her hand to encourage a faster pace. “Let’s go, Slayer. We’re wasting time nattering like this.”

Buffy obliged him, although her mouth bent in a sardonic, weary line. “It’s not a waste. It’s all the time I have left with you.”

God, the chit could make hitting below the belt a fucking art form. He drew in a slow, steadying breath, not even sure what made him say his next words: “Sorry I’m not the Spike you were looking for, luv.”

Buffy glanced up at him, surprise filling her expression. He expected some kind of resigned agreement, but—to his complete amazement—she just gave a tired shrug. “You’re still Spike, as it turns out. Not good, but… you. And it’s better than… not you.”

When her fingers gripped his a little harder, he returned the favor and tried to squash the tendrils of warmth that her words sent coursing through his cold veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “Arvins” that Spike mentions re: his dog tags refers to a common nickname for members of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, which were the (eventually losing) opposition to the Viet Cong and the Northern Vietnamese Army during the Vietnam War.


	14. Change the Rule

He could tell the Slayer was rethinking coming back with him the moment she stepped through the door. The moment it must’ve really hit that she was about to get ravished in some dead bloke’s flat. A dead bloke whose throat he’d ripped to shreds, and whose worldly possessions still cluttered the space in macabre testimonial. With Dru, that would’ve been a turn-on. Buffy just looked faintly sick.

Well, that’s what he got for tangling with a Slayer.

Still, he wasn’t about to let her get cold feet now. He slammed the door shut behind her and pressed her against the wall, burying his nose in her stupidly perky hair. It smelled intoxicating, all lathered in the remnants of some fruity shampoo and her aroused sweat and the food from Syl's. Buffy stiffened against his attentions and her hands pushed back against his chest, rebuking him without any real strength.

“Spike…”

The anxious, defeated tones in her voice sent jolts of panic running through him. He smashed his lips to hers in answer, demanding and obliterating, as he willed her tensed body to soften.

“Just pretend,” he growled when he drew back to let her breathe.

Buffy blinked at him, her kiss-swollen lips parted in confusion and her once-repelling hands now clutching his shirt hard enough that the safety pins were digging painfully, deliciously into his skin. “Pretend?”

“That I love you. That we’re in 2003. That I’m a poncy do-gooder. Whatever the fuck you need to pretend about. Do it.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed and she searched his face. Slowly, she said, “You aren’t throwing it in my face and I don’t know why.”

“It?”

“The whole shebang of you and me in the future.”

“Course I’m not. I’m getting willing Slayer cunt with this scenario,” he said lavisciously, grinding roughly against her.

Buffy rolled her eyes, though her breath hitched as he rubbed her just the right way. “I mean it.”

When she pushed back at him again—this time with real Slayer strength—Spike sighed and relented. “Got ridiculed for loving you in that future of yours, did I?”

“All the time.” She looked down at the ground in clear unease. “Often by me.”

She felt  _bad_  about that? Fucking hell, that hostility was one of the most normal Slayer-to-vampire reactions he’d managed to wrangle from her. “Good on you,” he said mildly, using the daze of her surprise to steer her away the wall and down the hall toward the bedroom. “Only right, us being mortal enemies. ‘Spect future me ridiculed myself plenty.”

That earned him a small, wry smile. “I know you did. Pretty sure you hated that you loved me most of the time.” She paused. “You never stopped, though.”

Spike regarded her carefully, still inching them further into the flat, his hands fondling her clothed body as distractingly as he could manage. “What, being in love with you?”

Buffy gasped as he pinched a covered nipple. “Mhm.”

“Course not. If love has a bitch, pet, I’m it.”

Something brightened in her gaze, and her mouth twitched. “And you’re man enough to admit it.”

He frowned at the odd digression, unintentionally stilling. “Well, yeah.”

Their halted pace seemed to alert Buffy to what exactly he’d been doing and she threw a glance behind her shoulder, back toward the door. Damn. He watched her lips move in some silent phrase.

“Slayer?”

She looked back toward him, green eyes dark in the barely lit apartment. “I don’t want to pretend,” she said simply.

Alarmed dismay coursed through him. “But you said it,” he reminded her tightly, uneasily suspecting that Buffy was the contrary type, and the more he tried to keep her here, the more she’d try to leave. “I’m still him, mostly.”

“But not good.”

He released his grip on her with a growl, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Yeah, and you’ve known that since you dropped on my fucking head!”

Buffy watched him unreadably. “I have.”

“And we already had a pretty definitive chat tonight about my living habits.”

“We did.”

He glared at her. “Then what the bloody hell’s the problem?”

Buffy took a deep breath, her eyes slowly surveying the apartment. “If you don’t stay in Sunnydale, if you don’t... reform, then you’re going to still be…  _this_... in 2003. Out killing. Out being evil.”

So that piece of things had finally sunk in for her, had it? That was fucking inconvenient timing. “That's not news, Slayer.”

“No, it’s not, but,” she paused, her gaze landing on the old man’s armchair, “it's just… I just realized that's a half decade of new deaths that’ll have been under your belt in 2003, with no end in sight. And all of them because of my screw-up.”

Distantly, Spike realized her words meant he’d not been killing for  _years_  before he dusted, but he tucked away that bit of disturbing information for another time—one when Buffy wasn’t suddenly remembering her moral imperative. He could see it in her eyes, that glittering, hard determination. Remembered it vividly from Nikki’s face, from the Chinese girl’s, from the Portuguese Slayer, and the handful of other Slayers he’d come across through the years.

This was it, then. Buffy was going to tell him she’d changed her mind about them consorting—she likely had what she needed to find her way back to 2003 now, anyhow—and he’d be free to head back to Dru on his hands and knees.

Bugger that. He wasn’t ready yet.

“Oh, don’t go flattering yourself, sweetheart,” he snarled. “Hate to break it to you, but being Chosen doesn’t make you the center of the bloody universe.” When Buffy’s mouth drew a hard line, he added, “And it’s not going to make sod all difference to the future if you stay with me or go at this point, so you might as well get your rocks off.”

She regarded him steadily, flatly. “Staking you would make a difference.”

Spike froze, all the borrowed blood in his veins turning swiftly to ice as Buffy reached into the back of her waistband and drew out her stake.

Christ, this was going tits up in a hurry.

He stepped toward her with brittle, silky menace, nostrils flaring. “Believe we already played this game in the Watcher’s flat, luv. You love me. You aren't about to kill me."

To his surprise, Buffy gave a short, humorless laugh. "Wanna bet?”

They stared at one another, Spike’s mind racing. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to let her dust him. Which meant they were back to where they by all rights should have started—mortal enemies locked in play, where only one was walking off the board. It was the natural order of things. He should've been relieved, at absolute minimum, but all he could think of was how to get Buffy off this deadly track before he had to kill her. The vision of draining her dry made him twitch with violent, lusty anticipation, but the idea of her face all slack and lifeless in the moments after sent it to ashes. He'd love to kill her, but he didn't want her dead. What the hell was wrong with him?

Sneering, he stripped off his duster and tossed it at her feet. “Fine. Then we’ll end this now. But if you win, you promise me I won’t go by the pointy end of a dead bit of fiber.”

Buffy drew in a sharp breath, a hundred emotions flitting across her face as she blinked down at his discarded trophy, clearly knocked off-balance. “I don’t…”

“I want to see the sun,” he growled. “Want to stand it.” As he'd hoped, Buffy flinched, and he dug his verbal claws in deeper. “I want to go out  _burning_.”

The Slayer outright blanched this time, but—instead of crumbling—her expression turned flashing and furious. Oh, bollocks. He braced himself for her attack, but she just lobbed the stake at him, aiming at his head instead of his heart, with not even the pointy end toward him.

He caught it easily and waited.

“Go to hell,” she whispered venomously, then turned on her heel and strode out of the flat, the door slamming behind her.

Spike stared down at the stake, his stomach twisted in a knot. Then, with a furious growl, he whipped it toward the living room and watched it impale into the drywall.

_Fuck._

 

***

 

She couldn’t kill him.

The thought carried Buffy through her entire next day at the factory gallery as she mounted Julian’s ceramic sculpture thing-y to a reinforced wall. The memory of Spike’s angry, desperation-edged voice rang accompaniment in her ears.  _But you said it. I’m still him, mostly._

She couldn’t kill him.

Carefully releasing the sculpture, she eyed it on the mounting. So far, so good. Nothing had fallen down. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze flicking to her left hand and the glossy, sprawling scar that covered the top of her palm and traced back to her knuckles. Her body had seen more deep and brutal and bleeding wounds than she could count since the age of fifteen, but most of them had left barely more than the suggestion of a mark. Not that one. Willow had concocted some kind of special lotion that helped restore Buffy's hand to the full range of motion, but that had been the extent of the healing. The scar tissue refused to budge.

She couldn’t kill him.

Turning away from Julian’s sculpture, she slid back into her seat at the reception desk. After everything Spike had done for her and the world, his continued existence was the only way she could repay him. Even if he’d never again become the kind of man who deserved the repayment.

Sighing, she uncrumpled the bit of restaurant paper from her pocket, where the address for Kent Rolands was written in Syl’s messy half-cursive. With as powerful as Syl seemed to be, there was little doubt that the restaurant owner's contact probably had the requisite mojo to get Buffy back to her time.

Except… if she went back to 2003 now, that was it. Game over. All the harm she’d potentially caused—all the death warrants she’d inadvertently signed—would be set in stone. Entirely out of her control.

A shiver of steely defiance wound through her, an echo of what she’d felt while standing in her basement the night she realized how to win against the First, against everything and everyone that told her she wouldn’t. She’d never been so great at the going softly into the dark night thing.

So what if Spike wasn’t hers in the here and now? Drusilla had still been worried enough about Buffy’s presence in 1977 to want her immediately dead. Worried enough to attack Spike when he didn't deliver.

Maybe it was time to make sure those worries were founded.

Buffy slipped the address back into her pocket.

 

***

 

The made-up blonde tramp was a poor substitute for Buffy. She was all but wanking him off on the CB’s dance floor, her black-polished fingers down the front of his trousers, caressing his dick as he tongued her jugular.

“Wanna go out back and have a good time?” she whispered in his ear, low and promising against the deafening music. Her breath stank of beer and cock, this offer clearly not her first of the evening. Hard to believe he'd been getting Buffy off on his lap the night before and now he was reduced to this. Of course, he could always go back to his Lower East flat and Dru. Or go find Buffy and kill her, and forget this whole bloody Slayer debacle ever happened.

Or he could go out back with this willing little morsel fondling his prick.

Spike nodded tersely and tugged the blonde stand-in through the back door, slamming her against the brick hard enough that her blue eyes—they were the wrong fucking color—gained an edge of fear.

He bent his mouth to her ear. “You’re going to suck my cock like the nice little slag you are, then I’m going to drain you dry and leave your coked-up corpse back here by the dumpster for the rats to chew on. How's that for a good time, luv?”

Fear poured from the girl like rain and she started struggling against him. Always fucking delicious, that was.

Then Buffy’s weary voice sounded in his head.  _But not good._

A snarl escaped his lips, and his meal whimpered against his unyielding grasp. Overly righteous, stupid bitch. If she wanted to play the martyr over the future, so be it; he’d given her as much as he was going to. Not his problem that it wasn't enough for her.

Nuzzling the terrified bird’s trembling neck, he hid his face under her hair—Christ, it smelled all wrong—and let the demon loose, sinking his fangs in deep and hard as his hand tightened against her windpipe so she couldn’t scream. Blood gushed hot, heady, and metallic down his throat. The blonde’s body jerked in protest, weakening beautifully by the second, as he kept her viciously pinned against the brick.

Then, through the red haze of feeding, he thought he heard Buffy’s voice, in an odd mix of sharp and soft. “Spike.”

What had this bint been taking? He could taste some cocktail of drugs in her system, but none of them had the tang of hallucinogens.

Then the rippled warning of Slayer flashed down his spine.

_Oh, bloody hell._

Swallowing one last mouthful of blood, he withdrew his fangs from the half-drained blonde and, steeling himself, turned his head.

Buffy stood about fifteen feet away. Surprisingly, she didn’t look about to stake him—didn’t seem to be holding a weapon at all, in fact (and her cocktease of a little red dress was a bit formfitting for much armature). Her face was pale and her expression unreadable, which somehow seemed more dangerous than if she’d looked angry.

Silently, Spike lowered his unconscious meal to the ground, his gaze never leaving the Slayer. He watched Buffy swallow, the muscles in her slender throat tightening and releasing in a way that went straight to his cock.

“Is she alive?”

He sucked in a needless breath, letting his face shift back to human. “Yeah.”

“Is she going to die?”

He raised a brow. “I’m sure she will. Chit’s a junkie with dangerous taste in alley partners.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He motioned toward her with flippant irritation. “I seem to have been interrupted, so the bird’ll be up and kicking once she’s done having a nap.” He paused. “Bit confused as to why you didn't leap into action to defend humankind, though.”

“Did you want me to?”

He eyed Buffy suspiciously, but her impassive expression never slipped. “Is that a trick question, luv?”

“No.”

“Then no,” he said in exasperation. "Seeing as I'm rather fond of not being staked through the back."

Something flickered in Buffy’s eyes as her gaze shifted over to his unconscious meal, though he couldn’t pin down what it was. “She’s blonde.”

“Keen observation skills you have, Slayer.”

Buffy searched his face for something. “You could’ve tried to finish killing her even after you knew I was here.”

He lifted a brow. “I could do loads of things.”

“So why didn’t you?”

His patience snapped. “Are you  _completely_  off your trolley?”

“It would’ve hurt me,” she continued evenly.

What the  _hell_  was she was playing at? Spike stilled, eyes narrowing. “What, you want me to finish the job right now? Won’t take but a minute.”

Buffy closed her eyes briefly, clearly holding in some kind of angry reply. After a moment, she exhaled a slow breath. “I asked you once—future you—how you killed Nikki and Xin Rong. Do you know what you said?”

He stared at her, at a loss. Chrissake, were any of his conversations with her going to follow a reasonable plot? Sighing, he leaned against the brick wall and leisurely lit a smoke. “Can guess,” he drawled after a long drag, “that you’re about to tell me.”

“You said that it wasn’t about how you won, but why they lost.”

He raised a brow. “Sounds about right.”

“And you said,” Buffy continued calmly, “that a Slayer always has to reach for her weapon.”

He couldn’t help but flash her a bit of fang. “Already have mine, luv.”

Unexpectedly, that curled her lips up into a small smile. “Exactly.”

“Said that, too, did I?”

“Almost verbatim.”

Figured. “Nothing like a bit of time displacement to warn a bloke about how much of a predictable sod he is.” He took another long drag of his fag, letting the smoke choke his dead lungs.

By his knee, the blonde slag stirred, jolting from her slumped position with a gasp as she saw him. Spike motioned down to her terrified form with an impatient growl. "Run along."

Whimpering, the blonde bint stumbled to her feet and ran unsteadily out of the alley, hand pressed against her oozing neck. When she was out of sight, he turned back to Buffy. “So, was there a point to that bit of future wisdom from yours truly?"

The Slayer didn’t answer immediately, her gaze following the path the girl had taken, and he braced himself for the riot act. Instead, Buffy's eyes were shockingly neutral when she turned back to him. "The point," she said softly, "is that you were wrong."

A startled chuckle rumbled through him. “That so?”

“Yeah, that’s so." Buffy stepped toward him with a slow, swishing stride, the revealing lines of her torturously tight frock making him bite back on a groan. He straightened from the wall, flicking his cigarette away as she came up in front of him, the hot power of her presence radiating into his cold skin like a midnight sun. Unbidden, the echo of Dru’s angry voice filled his mind.  _Sunshine’s come, to burn and burn and burn._

Pouting lips neared dangerously close. “Wanna know why you’re wrong?"

Spike sucked in a short breath, hands hovering over her hips as he fought the urge to pull her to him. “Pray enlighten me, luv.”

“Because," Buffy murmured, with a wicked glint in her eyes, "I  _am_  the weapon.” Then—while Spike found himself frozen in place and suddenly hard enough to pound nails—she just smirked and slipped past him, opening the door back into CBGBs.

He was following at her heels before the door had a chance to swing closed.


	15. Rising to the Challenge

“I know what you’re doing, Slayer.” It was a low, harsh growl, belying the lustful and amused look Spike wore as he caught her in the middle of the crowded dance floor and tugged her tight against him in a near mirror of their first encounter here.

The inside of CBGB’s was blaring tonight (and probably always), the air swimming with sweat and the raucous, screamed lyrics from some punk boy band that Buffy—not shockingly—didn’t recognize. Plastering on an innocent expression, she blocked out the noise and wrapped her arms around Spike’s neck, looking up into his darkened eyes with her own artfully wide ones. “What am I doing?”

“What you said you weren’t going to. Trying to use your wiles to con me into keeping the future your way.”

“Nope, sorry, try again.”

Spike’s head cocked to the side in adorable, suspicious confusion, his fingers digging briefly into her hips before sliding around to cup her barely covered ass (the red dress had been a thrift store dream come true for Spike enticement purposes). “Then what the bloody hell do you call this?”

“Oh, the wiles are here. Being all wiley. But I’m not trying to con you into anything. And I’m not trying to recreate my future.” She shrugged nonchalantly, though her chest was tight. “That reality is probably long gone.”

“So, again, what the hell is this?”

“A challenge. Didn’t you get that part? Do you really need me to spell it out for you? Starts with a ‘C’, ends with I ‘I win.’”

Spike glowered at her. “And  _what_ , exactly, are you challenging me to?”

“To withstand temptation,” she murmured, running a hand enticingly down her neck as she had many years before when he’d been chained to Giles’s bathtub.

Spike’s reaction hadn’t disappointed her then, and it didn’t disappoint her now. His pupils widened and his lips parted, his gaze glued to her throat. Clearly struggling, he forced his eyes back up to meet her hers, his voice husky and colored with confusion. “The temptation to drink you dry?”

“The temptation to be good.”

He startled against her, letting loose a surprised bark of laughter as his lips quirked in patronizing amusement. “I think I’ll somehow withstand the urge, luv. Right once I actually get it, that is.”

“You didn’t before.”

“Apparently Dru dumping me permanently shorted out my bloody brain,” he said darkly. “Won’t happen again.”

Buffy's expression turned wry. He had no idea how spot-on he was with the connection of brains and electronics. “You helped me save the world before that.”

“With Angelus, you mean?” At her nod, Spike snorted. “Sounds like that was a self-serving venture on my end.” He paused and regarded her curiously. “You never did say exactly how we offed the git.”

There was a stiff, abrupt halt at the end of his sentence that she knew came from his easy use of the word  _we_. As if the idea of partnering with her to stop Angelus seemed as natural to this Spike as it had to his future self. A cautious edge of hope lanced through her.

Not allowing him time to revise his statement, Buffy answered evenly, “I stabbed him through the chest and sent him flying into a hell portal.”

That garnered another laugh from Spike, this time one of pure, vicious delight. “Sounds brilliant. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.” Then his brow furrowed. “What was I doing?”

“You weren’t doing anything at that point.”

“Come again?”

“You knocked out Drusilla and left with her a little while before that.”

Spike blinked at her, his expression turning oddly furious and disgusted. “I  _broke_  my promise?” His eyes flashed amber and his grip on her turned hurting as a growl rumbled through him. “Fucking hell. I know I turned into a complete ponce in your time, but never thought I’d be  _that_ kind of useless wanker on top of it.”

Buffy found herself fighting a surprised, amused smile. If possible, this version of Spike seemed to take the idea of being honorable even more seriously than future him had (after all, he'd broken several promises to leave and never return to Sunnydale). But then, it sort of seemed like the Spike of now had a reputation to uphold in New York, if his conversation with Syl was any indicator. His word was power here.

It was something she’d never quite understood in those terms before, but that hit her with hurricane force now. She couldn’t help but remember the quiet intensity in Spike's eyes every time he’d agreed to one of her requests or demands or (very rarely) pleas. 

“You didn't exactly break it. You beat Angel pretty violently with a fire poker in the beginning. You got him off balance.”

Spike made a small noise of derision in his throat. “A ruddy child with a tripping mania could have accomplished as much.”

“And you kept Giles—my Watcher—from dying.” Guilty memory plagued her. “Angelus was torturing him.”

Spike’s grip on her softened. “Always was his specialty.”

“I don’t think Giles ever really forgave me for it,” Buffy admitted, pressing her bowed head against Spike’s shoulder, all her sex kitten intentions fading under the weight of her past failures.

“Then he was a complete prat and you should’ve traded him in for a new model,” Spike said sharply. When Buffy’s head rose in surprise, he pursed his lips. “The Council wankers exist to serve your ilk, Slayer. Seen a fair number of them die for their cause, as they’re made to do. If your Giles bloke wasn’t ready and willing to fall on his sword—or Angelus’s—like his brethren, then he was defective, anyhow.”

The tight ache around her heart eased slightly as dark humor took over. “Beyond Giles definitely not being some weird machine-y servant, there’s also the small fact that I sort of caused that particular situation.”

“How do you figure?”

Buffy arched a brow. “The sleeping with, soul saying sayonara issue I mentioned?”

“Unless you were giving Angelus his marching orders, pretty sure you’re off your nutter to think his pathetic apocalypse attempt was your fault.” Spike gave an exasperated sigh. “You bloody white hat types. Christ, do you not know how to exist without trying to take on guilt for the whole sodding world?” Something seemed to snap back into his gaze then. “And  _speaking of that_ , you’re also off your nutter if you think I want anything to do with that kind of tortured martyr routine. Killing, fucking, and fighting’s all I want anything to do with.”

“Liar.” When’s Spike’s expression turned dangerously offended, she continued, “We both know there’s a lot more to you than that.”

Spike paused, seemingly reconsidering. “Alright,” he conceded, “there’s a general bit of having fun, too. But that sort of plays into the rest.” He glared at her, raising a hand and motioning toward himself. “I don’t know what your nancy version of me did, but this is me, luv. This is what I am. I hunt Slayers. Shag my lady.”—Buffy noticed the distinct faltering on that last assertion—“Go see shows. Have a brawl or ten. Paint the town red. Then have a bit of kip and do it again.”

“Sounds like a rock and roll kind of lifestyle,” Buffy said dryly. “Except you’re forgetting something.”

Spike eyed her warily. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“I know you.” She molded her body further against his, feeling him shiver against her body heat as he stifled a groan. “Those are all things you do, not what you are.”

And god, how many years had it taken her to figure out the difference?

“What I am,” Spike said harshly, “is a master vampire and the bloody Slayer of Slayers.”

“I’m not saying you’re not.”

“Then how about you actually get a little clearer on what the fuck you  _are_  saying,” came the irritated snarl.

Buffy took a deep breath. “Spike, I went into Lloyd’s cave to get you back. The you who worked really hard to become a good man. You deserve the chance to get to be him again.” When Spike’s expression turned cold and flat, she added, “I’m not going to con you into or make you do anything. But I think there’s a part of you that… that wants it.”

Spike stared at her, his expression unyielding and unreadable. For all she could tell, he was about to stalk off and wash his hands of her forever.

“And what if you’re wrong, pet?” came his shockingly neutral question, at last.

“Then it’s no different from before.” Buffy swallowed. “And I’ll just have to deal with that.” Steel laced up her spine. “But I’m not wrong.”

To her surprise, Spike didn’t offer any kind of scathing reply. He just looked at her. “You doing this because you love me?” His blue eyes hardened, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. “Or because you just want me at your beck and call, not eating the populace and begging you for a poofy white hat?”

Buffy paused, gathering her thoughts. One wrong word and she knew Spike would be gone, game over in an instant.

“Why do you love Drusilla?” she asked softly.

Spike gave her an incredulous look. “You want to talk about Dru right now?”

“Humor me. You know she doesn’t love you… Why do you love her so much?”

Spike still looked flabbergasted, but he eventually sighed, acquiescing with a shrug. “Me loving her has nothing to do with me, Slayer. Sure, there’s lots of her that does have to do with me. She’s my sire—she  _made_  me. But that’s not what the loving part’s about. Known plenty of vamps who despise their sires. I love her for what she is, bats in the belfry and all.”

It was a painful echo of his words to her in the abandoned house only months ago, and Buffy had to swallow around the sudden tightness in her throat. “Haven’t you ever thought that you deserved more?”

Spike arched a mocking brow. “What? Like ending up dust by palling around with you?"

Grief coursed through her. “I wasn’t talking about that,” she whispered, her voice barely permeating through the din. “I know you think your life went majorly downhill around me before. And the thing is… you’re not wrong in some ways. A lot of your time around me was miserable. But there was a lot more to it. A lot of important, meaningful things that happened before you died."

Spike chuckled. “Is this you trying to win me over? Because I gotta say, Slayer, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.”

“This is me saying…” She huffed out a frustrated breath. God, word girl just wasn’t her thing. “I’m saying that I can’t love like you can. The selfless, give-your-entire-being-away kind of love. I just… can’t do that.”

Spike shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned and unsurprised. “Course you can’t, luv. You’re the hero type. Have to save a bit of yourself to care about sunshine and puppies and all that rot.”

Buffy exhaled gratefully. Of course Spike understood that. He always had—only ever begging her for crumbs when she knew he wanted the entire cookie. “Right. So when I care about something or someone… it gets all tied up with what I have to do. The lives and people I’m responsible for protecting.” She forced herself to hold his gaze steadily. “So, yes, of course I want you to be a good man. But it has nothing to do with wanting to put you at my beck and call. I want it because then I...” Buffy bit her lip, forcing herself not to turn on her heel and run as the terror of vulnerability jolted through her, “then I can call myself yours as much as you can be called mine.”

Spike didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze dark and turmoiled. “So, essentially,” he muttered finally, “you’re challenging me to not fall in love with you.” Something amused glittered in his eyes. “And you’re convinced I’ll lose.”

“You tried to get me to fall in love with you for years. It worked eventually. And I know I'm the harder sell between the two of us.”

Of course, she'd fallen in love with him only to have him reject her love declaration as he all but committed suicide. The thought was nearly enough to actually make her flee, but Spike’s arms tightened around her, his mouth dipping to her ear.

“If I were smart,” he murmured silkily, “I’d just kill you here and now and be done with this entire, barking mad situation.”

Buffy held her breath. “But?”

“But that wouldn’t really be sporting, now would it?” He drew back to regard her with a leer. “And there’s not likely to be another Slayer who’ll be up for a shag in the future, so I think I’ll make the most of this before you run off back to 2003.”

Buffy felt a wicked grin cross her lips, relief and anticipation suffusing her with confidence. She held her mouth a hairsbreadth away from his as he drew in an unnecessary, struggling breath. “Who says I’m ‘up for a shag’?”

When Spike loosened his arms in surprise, she slipped from his grasp and continued the chase she’d started in the alley. She shimmied through the leather-clad crowd toward the cluster of half walled-off tables situated to the side, her vampire in close pursuit behind her. When he got held up by a large group of mohawked guys halfway there, she turned and mouthed a sultry, “Here, kitty, kitty,” before darting away.

Spike’s answering snarl was audible even above the din.


	16. Epiphanal Moments

Spike was a moment away from turning the entirety of CB’s into a bloodbath. Wouldn’t have been the first time. Well, the locale would have been new, but the bloodshed… that bit never changed.

Dru especially loved the sport, he’d learned around the turn of the century. His dark princess had been near inconsolable when the Scourge fell apart after the Boxer Rebellion, with Angelus run off with his soulful tail between his legs and Darla away in a snit about the whole affair.

Spike had admittedly been ill-prepared for the depth of Dru’s despair, barely out of fledgehood with his first Slayer kill and thrust abruptly into the fullness of fending for himself and his gorgeously mad sire after their elders’ desertion. Dru had taken to wailing at all hours, and getting her to eat had been an almost futile effort through the ranting and sobbing. The best he’d managed was to gorge himself first and then let her ravage his jugular during one of her lucid moments, which quickly led him past the point of pleasurable pain and into a state of constant, gaping injury. By the time they’d made it halfway through Siam, he’d been near the end of his fucking rope, and had cursed Angelus and Darla to hell and back twice through.

When they passed a temple in service in some small backwater village and Dru seemed interested in the happening, inspiration had struck. It wasn’t his style to pen in a crowd; Angelus was always going on about that kind of premeditated 'artistry,' but fuck all, it was boring as hell. Still, he had the feeling his sire might enjoy the idea. So he’d barred the temple doors and encouraged her to have at it.

And have at it she had. His wicked goddess had never looked so magnificent before, drenched in blood and entrails as she carefully positioned corpses around the place. She was always marvelously innocent in her carnage, nattering on to the bodies as if they were carrying on conversations despite all their insides hanging out. One bloke, he remembered, must've somehow reminded Dru of her human father (despite the fact that the bloke was about as Oriental as they came), and she’d curled right up into his mangled lap and regaled him with all of her exploits, purring and nuzzling against his bloodied skin.

Of course, trying to drag her away at the end had nearly undone all the good of the venture, as she was loathe to leave her new ‘daddy,’ and she screamed warningly loud at all attempts to dislodge her from her fleshy seat (and of all the rubbish they didn’t need at that moment, an angry mob was at the bloody top). Finally, Spike loaded up the corpse into a cart and dragged it with them through the next three towns, until Dru forgot about the rotting father figure and he was able to offload it into the nearest river.

God, he’d never hated Angelus as much as he’d hated him then, dumping that damn rotting corpse and watching it float away. Twenty years of the bastard’s presence had taught him unerringly that Angelus excelled at one thing: breaking everything he came into contact with.

Buffy, it seemed, hadn’t escaped the git unscathed, either. But Angelus hadn’t broken her like he had his sire and every conquest after. Instead, the Slayer had apparently sent him straight to hell with a sword through his chest. She really was a hell of a woman.

And  _she_  was currently running away from him, her green eyes glittering in the semi-dark as she darted between warm bodies, her lips parting in a silent, infuriating taunt.

He was going to rip the entire club to shreds if these wankers didn’t get out of his way. Luckily for them, the idiots must’ve seen the murder in his eyes and parted just before he started snapping necks.

He knew he was playing right into Buffy’s hands, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He’d never been in so much danger from a Slayer before.

It was bloody intoxicating.

He wouldn’t fall in love with her. God, he  _couldn’t_. It would mean… fuck, it would mean a load of things it simply wasn't allowed to mean. But he would take everything Buffy offered while she was here—he was a selfish, needy bastard. And besides, the tiny spitfire apparently knew all too well that he couldn’t turn down a challenge. Not to mention, there was the massive stroking of his ego that this whole situation offered.

That was the most dangerous portion, in the end. Buffy acted as if he mattered. As if belonging to him was something she longed for. As if the Slayer wanted to belong to the Slayer of Slayers.

Sodding universe and its shite sense of humor.

He caught up to Buffy by the side tables, watching her flushed face and listening to the rapid pattering of her heart as he zeroed in on her. She gave away her next evasive maneuver with a slight twitch.

_Gotcha, luv._

He had her pinned against the wall in between tables a moment later, pressing himself against the length of her hot and panting body. Her scent was almost overwhelming, lush with arousal and sweat and excitement.

“Mmm,” he purred, “I seem to have found myself a nice, ripe girl.”

By the look on Buffy’s face—the widening of her eyes and the surprised part of her full lips—it was obvious he’d mimicked his future self again. For fuck’s sake. He pursed his lips. “Do you remember every sodding thing future me said?”

Buffy’s lips quirked up. “Nope. But that phrase was pretty memorable.”

“Well, you smell good,” he huffed defensively.

She blushed, making her even more alluring. God, how he wanted to bite her. “Thanks.”

He couldn’t help a chuckle. “Not something you should probably be thanking a vampire for, pet.” He let a slow grin form as he slid a hand down her side, hooking his fingers below the hem of her short little excuse for a dress, to her hitched breath. “Might find yourself getting eaten by some big bad.”

He expected the Slayer to stop his fingers as they wandered up the smooth skin of her inner thigh, pushing up her dress as he went—leaving her virtue only hidden from view by the shadow of his open duster—but she just bit her lip and shifted her hips toward him.

Bloody hell.

“You really get off on this, don’t you, luv?”

“This?”

“Being out where anyone can see.” A smirk pulled back his lips. “Not complaining, mind you.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “You always been this way?”

Buffy flushed again. “Big no.”

“No?” His fingers teased her clit through the thin material of her knickers and she whimpered.

“When I met you,” Buffy managed, her voice breathless, “I was sixteen and had no idea what to do with you, this vamp who kept flirting while you tried to kill me.”

He grinned. “Drove you barmy, did I?”

“Completely. I wanted to punch that innuendo straight off your face.”

“And later?”

“Later… I actually did punch you plenty for it, even when we were… doing things.”

He cocked his head at her. “So what changed then?”

Buffy’s expression grew serious, a slight frown forming between her brows. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then, “I was in Rome without you.”

“What?”

A small smile flicked across her lips as she looked up at him. “That’s when I realized it. You’d been gone for four months, and I had just gotten done patrolling for the night. I ended up outside this old basilica in the Piazza della... something, and I was sitting there, trying to get the energy to go back to my apartment. Dawn was out with her friend, so it was empty.” She paused, swallowing. “I just… I didn’t want to go back yet.”

Spike regarded her steadily, entranced and confused. “Alright…”

Buffy threw him a rueful smile. “Anyway, I was sitting there, and started imagining you were there and that…” she paused, her cheeks reddening, “that we were screwing right outside the entrance of the basilica.”

Spike’s cock twitched violently at the thought. “Happy to screw you up against any church you like, pet,” he murmured huskily.

Buffy snorted, rolling her eyes. “The point being, someone walked by and I realized what I’d been imagining. And then I pretty much ran home.”

Spike frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because I’d just imagined you screwing me in  _public_ against a  _church_ ,” Buffy said emphatically, looking almost painfully embarrassed as she said it.

“Yeah, and?”

“And…” Buffy bit her lip. “And you weren’t even there to have suggested it. That was all me.  _I_  liked the idea.”

He was really missing something here.

Buffy must’ve seen his confusion, because she added, “When you and I had sex in public in my time, I thought I only liked it because…” Her expression grew tight. “Because I didn’t like myself.”

Bitter understanding flooded him and he sucked in a sharp breath as the old, constant curl of inadequacy rose hot and heavy. So his future self had gone poncy and white hat—turning his back on everything he was—and still only had the Slayer in self-loathing until the end. At which point he’d turned to dust. Bloody hell, he really had the worst fucking taste in women.

“Of course you didn't,” he muttered, dropping his hand from her panties and releasing her, stepping back.

Buffy looked alarmed and reached for his withdrawing grasp even as she pulled down her dress. “Spike, I told you we weren’t… That until the end, I didn’t…”

“Didn’t tell me that I was an exercise in self-loathing,” he growled, avoiding her reach. “Figured it was a bit of meaningless shag on your end. Didn’t take it for  _that_.” His jaw clenched.

Buffy sighed. “It was… I was going through a lot at the time.” Some shadow crossed her expression. “You and I both did some pretty awful things to each other in my time. But we moved past them.”

He gave her a hard look. “Did we? Getting a little clearer picture now on why future me thought you were just handing out a pity fuck at the end.”

Buffy recoiled as if he’d hit her, her face paling. He watched her draw in a slow, purposeful breath, her fists clenching at her sides. “I’m not going to get into the details of everything with you. What you and I had in my time... it was messy and stupid and we wanted to kill each other most of the time, okay? But it was ours. And it means something to me.” Her expression turned angry and she poked him hard in the chest with her pointer finger, glaring. “I’m not going to cheapen what we had by not explaining it well. So you’re just going to have to shut up and trust me about it.”

His anger drained away in helpless awe at her passionate ferocity. “God, Slayer.”

He had Buffy pinned against the wall again before she could comment, his jean-clad cock pressing hard into her lower belly and his blood thrumming with desire, almost laughably in tune with Richard Hell on the stage as he yelled about crazed devotion and love coming in spurts. Spike smashed his lips to Buffy’s, groaning as she mewled and twined her arms around his neck, her fingers raking into his hair.

“Going to shag you right here,” he growled as he nipped down her jugular, to her sharp intake of breath. “Right where everyone can see.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed throatily, tilting her head back as she arched into his touch, her eyes slitted as she stared at the ceiling.

He yanked her head back down with a sharp tug to her hair and forced her to meet his gaze. “No, luv,” he demanded lowly, “you’re going to watch.” He glanced around briefly, his fingers again rubbing her clit through her now damp panties. “You're going to watch that anorexic little bird over there who could look over at any moment and see me shagging you.” He shifted slightly so that there was no doubt at all that Buffy’s person was covered by his duster and the dark, then he ripped her knickers off entirely. He’d kill any wanker who got a look at Buffy’s goodies. “You're going to watch those two having their own fuck over on that chair there.” His tongue curled behind his teeth as he eyed Buffy predatorily, seeing her gaze turn to the couple in question. “The git doesn’t look like he’d know how to get a chair leg off, though, no matter a woman. Wonder how many times I can make you come before he even finds that bint’s clit?”

Buffy’s mouth pursed together as she tried to stifle a giggle. “You’re so bad,” she said, in what was probably trying to be a reproving voice.

“The baddest, baby,” he growled, unzipping his jeans and lifting her up just slightly against the wall, encouraging her to wrap one leg around his waist. When she obliged, he let his insistent and painfully hard cock plunge straight into her hot pussy. “Oh fuck.”

Christ, she really had ruined him. How many years was he going to miss Buffy’s cunt once she pranced off back to her own time? His dick had never felt so at home. No wonder future him hadn’t cared much that she didn’t give a toss about him most of the time. Not if she was giving him this—this tight paradise of warmth and wet.

He fucked her slowly against the wall, his head nestling into the crook of her neck as she shuddered and moaned against him, her voice nearly swallowed by the new, even more blaringly loud song from the stage.

He sent his free hand down to tease her clit and avidly watched her fall apart around him, bracing himself against the stunning power of her muscles that gripped his cock into near oblivion. Then Buffy, whimpering but with a hard and determined glint in her eyes, twisted her hips with vicious purpose and his balls tightened helplessly. He snarled against her skin as he spilled himself inside her, the call of her blood nearly making him lose his mind with desire.

“Demanding bitch,” he muttered, shivering with pleasure as his cock jerked in the last throes of brilliant orgasm.

He felt Buffy smile against his temple. “You love it.” When his frame stiffened, she amended quietly, “Loved it, anyway.”

He didn’t reply, a bit afraid to let his mouth have free rein at the moment. Instead, he pulled his momentarily softened prick from its home and shoved it back into his trousers, setting Buffy down fully on her feet.

“We’re heading back to my flat now,” he said finally, watching as she adjusted her dress to a less revealing state. The little bit of cloth was just asking for a good shred. His come was already running down the inside of her legs, and she reeked perfectly of his scent. “And if you pull a runner on me again, I’ll chain you up.”

Buffy raised a brow, her gaze cool, though her heart rate had shifted up. “Your track record with me and chains is really poor, just so you know.”

Well, that sounded like an interesting tale. He leaned close, letting his cool breath tickle her lips as he growled, “Oh, luv, maybe with my poncy future self, but not with me.”

Buffy rolled her eyes but she couldn’t hide the devious smile playing on her lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just chain  _you_  up instead.”

The memory of Dru chaining him up after Buffy’s arrival flitted through his brain, redolent with Dru’s fury. _Bad girl thinks she can take doggies out of place and put on her own leash._

“Maybe,” he said tightly, before wrapping an arm around her waist and guiding them toward the door.

Christ, he was utterly fucked.


	17. Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This early chapter posting is a special gift for tamarama. Happy birthday! (For those of you who keep track on EF, there is no accompanying new chapter there)

I spent half the time I should've been writing this chapter drooling over Darkling Spike gifs. For research. You're welcome.

* * *

 

It took Buffy a solid several seconds of staring at Spike’s bare chest to realize it was the first time she’d seen this era’s Spike sans shirt. When they’d gone at it in Nikki’s Watcher’s apartment, he’d managed to do that entirely infuriatingly Spike thing where he got her completely naked while he only ended up half undressed. And the most recent time, he’d just unzipped and destroyed yet another pair of her panties (good thing she’d bought the value pack), and that had been that.

She’d thought Spike had been built back in Sunnydale. And he had been, no doubt about it—at least until the soul, when months of Spike doing nothing but curling into a ball atrophied his muscles into normal person territory. Before that, though, Spike had been a lean, mean jungle cat.

Here in 1977, all the hard planes of muscle that she was used to were even harder and sharper, with just enough added bulk that Spike's frame had turned from dangerous feline to certain death walking. His biceps, in particular, seemed larger, now that Buffy was shamelessly staring. But the most jarring realization was that Spike's eyebrow wasn't the only thing pierced in this era; a silver bar neatly bisected each of his nipples. She found herself almost entranced by the additions; an odd, inescapable reminder of her time displacement in a place she never expected to find it.

Spike arched his pierced brow at her, his mouth curling into a lascivious, quizzical smirk as he tossed his shirt to the carpet. “Enjoying the view, luv? You’re gawking like you haven’t seen the goods before.”

A blush rose in her cheeks. “The goods are different,” she mumbled, her eyes sliding away from him, to their bedroom surroundings. A bedroom where a dead man’s belongings were clustered. A man who was dead because of her.

She’d flat out refused to step foot in the bedroom at first, despite Spike’s physical coaxing and eventual, exasperated, “Bloody hell, Slayer! I killed him in the living room, not the bedroom.” At her incredulous glare, he’d quickly realized that was not the way to win her over. In the end, he’d prevailed in getting her through the door by turning down the photos on the dresser and stripping all the bed linens.

Buffy’s vision drew down to the bare mattress she was now seated on the edge of, before snapping back to the amused and now entirely curious vampire.

“Different?” he inquired, head cocking.

“The piercings are new. And you’re a little... buffer.” She paused, brow furrowing. “Or is it more buff?”

Spike chuckled, sauntering toward her. “You’re drooling over my muscles? What, did white hatting make me soft outside as well as in, then?”

 _More than you know._  “You’d always been a bit leaner in my time… I think.”

“You think?”

“I didn’t see you without long sleeves for the first couple years.”

Spike’s torso rippled as he huffed in amused confusion. “Any reason those first couple years would have been different from the others?”

Buffy’s gaze unwillingly flicked around the bedroom again. “You were still eating people then.”

Spike stared at her. “I wasn’t eating people at all later on? Not even just leaving them fine and breathing?” At Buffy’s headshake, he made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Well, no bloody wonder I got lean, then.” A pause. “What did I eat, exactly, if not people?”

“Pig’s blood.”

Spike stared at her for another long, unreadable moment, before chuckling lowly. “You know, Slayer, if you really want me to buy into the white hat gig, you might want to learn to lie a little.”

“There were extenuating circumstances.”

Spike snorted and took another step toward her, until he was standing in between her knees. His cool hands ran slowly up her thighs, sliding up her dress as he went. “Same circumstances that kept me from killing you?”

Her breath hitched as his fingers drew slow circles on her inner thighs. “Or me from killing you.”

Spike looked like he wanted to continue interrogating her, which was probably just going to end with an irate vampire and negative progress in getting him to think past an evil lifestyle. Lying was out, but distraction was an easy alternative. Luckily, experience had taught her that Spike was very easily distracted. Biting her lip, Buffy wiggled her dress up and over her head and tossed it aside. The dress hadn’t permitted a bra, which left her entirely bare as she sat on the bed.

A low growl rumbled from Spike’s throat as he surveyed her, his fingers tracing up to stroke her folds, leaving her trembling with desire. Then, to her surprise, he fixed her with a knowing look. “That’s your plan, is it?”

Damn. Caught. She shrugged. “It’s worked before.”

His gaze travelled her body again. “Don’t doubt it.” His lips twitched. “So you’re just going to keep offering up your delicious cunt and wait for me to profess my undying love? Is that about the long and short of your battle tactics?”

Buffy fixed him with a challenging stare. “Do you know what you told me after the first time we slept together?”

“What’d I tell you, luv?”

“You told me that you were in my system, and that I’d crave you now like you crave blood.” Those words had taunted her for days after the fact as she tried to rid her brain of the memories of Spike-induced pleasure. For god’s sake, she’d resorted to hanging garlic in her room and huddling with a cross in the middle of her bed, decked in clothing from head to toe. And still, none of it had warded the words—or the truth—away.

Spike laughed lowly, his eyes glinting with admiration. “So it’s my own tactics you’re using against me? You little sneak.”

He nudged her back on the bed, unbuckling his belt and dropping his jeans. Buffy swallowed as she leaned back on her elbows, drinking in the view of him—the lithe twist of his torso as he bent over, the sensual jut of his narrow hips, the proud angle of his cock. It was almost weird to have the time to watch. Excepting her final night with Spike, every sexual encounter had been frantic or angry, and always goal-oriented. Sightseeing had not been on the menu, no matter how many times Spike tried to put it there.

“Just slow down,” he’d outright told her once, as she ripped off his shirt in the crypt. “And– Hey, I liked that shirt!”

She’d just shaken her head and attacked his belt buckle, until he grabbed her hands hard enough to still her. When she looked up at him, annoyed and slightly panicky, his gaze was unbearably soft. “Buffy… it’s not a race, luv.”

The tenderness in his tone had made something inside her tremble in terror. “I don’t want to be here longer than I have to,” she’d snapped.

She still remembered the exact way Spike’s face had shut down after that, his eyes turning hard and cold as agate, and his mouth drawing a flat, angry line. “Right, then,” he’d growled as he shoved her back against the crypt wall and tugged up her skirt. “You want a quick fuck? Quick it is, sweetheart.”

Pausing only to spit on his cock, he’d plunged inside her, purposely slamming her against the stone wall with every thrust and leaving her with heavy bruises and scrapes on her shoulder blades that stung in the shower the next day. His fingers against her clit were ruthless and hard, and it was a tribute to how much she wanted it to hurt that she orgasmed almost faster than ever. When Spike came inside her with a snarl a minute later, he immediately pushed himself away and zipped up.

“Now sod off.”

The hard dismissal had made her livid, for a whole host of reasons that she hadn’t wanted to examine. So she’d hauled off and punched him before making an exit.

The entire thing had been a mess from start to finish.

Buffy watched as the Spike of here and now prowled up the bed toward her, and found herself suddenly desperate to rewrite all of those memories. If nothing else, this Spike would never know that kind of treatment from her. “Take me slow?”

Spike stilled, his head level with her breasts and his mouth almost torturously near her needy skin. He didn’t answer immediately, just looked down at her body, and she was left to nervously watch the mussed curls of his spiked hair. Finally, he shrugged, all his shoulder muscles rolling carelessly. “If you like, pet.” He slipped his lips around her left nipple, his fingers teasing the other in a mirrored, swirling grip. Pleasure wound bright and warm down into her belly and Buffy let herself fall back fully onto the bare mattress. With an appreciative growl, Spike grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. Then, inexplicably, he paused.

“What the bloody hell is that?”

Buffy tilted her head to see him staring at the exposed underside of her left upper arm. He’d found her Norplant, the six hormonal cylinders fanning out just beneath her skin and leaving a swath of raised bumps.

“Um, my birth control.”

His nose wrinkled. “In your  _arm_?” Something flashed in his gaze, too quickly for her to catch, and she suddenly had a furious vampire glaring at her. “Who the fuck did you let touch you after I died, Slayer?”

She bristled at his accusing tone. “That’s not really any of your business.”

Spike’s gaze darkened. “Not any of my business?” He scoffed, rolling away from her in disgust. “You claim to have loved me, and yet you’ve been off letting some bloke,” he paused as a worse thought seemed to strike him, “or  _blokes_  take a poke between your knees not even six months later. Tell me, Slayer, did you let my ashes settle before you opened your legs again, or did you just fuck right on top of them?”

Blistering hurt and fury rose in her, nearly blinding her vision. She couldn’t help it. She slapped him. Hard. The stinging sound rang sharply through the small space.

“For your information,  _you jackass_ , between the two of us, it’s only you who’s screwed someone else between now and the time we started sleeping together.”

Her words or the slap seemed to shake Spike out of his rage, although his eyes were still narrowed at her, a red patch blooming on his pale cheek. “Well, no shite, sweetheart. Up until two weeks ago, my one and only was Dru.”

Buffy took a deep, angry breath. “Not  _you_  you. Him you.”

Spike reared back, mouth parting in shock. “What?”

The bitter, stabbingly painful memory of seeing Spike screwing Anya on the Magic Box table made her stomach lurch even now. Buffy sat up on the bed, wrapping her arms around her waist. “We were… broken up,”—it wasn’t exactly the right term, since they’d never been officially together, but it was the best one she had—“and you screwed my friend’s ex-fiancée.” Heavy emotion threatened to swamp her and she realized that she was practically vibrating with distress. “Unfortunately for me, it got caught on camera and I saw the entire freaking show.”

And damnit, she was crying in Spike’s presence again—hot, angry tears. In less than three weeks, she’d probably cried more in front of this Spike than she ever had in front of the other.

Without warning, Buffy found herself tugged straight into Spike’s lap, his arms wrapping tightly around her as his hands ran soothing circles into her back. “Christ, luv, don’t cry again,” he muttered. “Your future me was a complete git, alright? Really can’t fathom why you wanted him back so bleeding bad.”

A hiccupped laugh escaped her. “Some days I’m not sure, either.” She sobered quietly. “And then I remember everything you did for me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper and her lips pressed against the front of Spike’s shoulder, not far from where he’d once tried to claw his chest open to dig the soul out. “And I remember how much you changed for me. And I remember how much you sacrificed for me.” She took a shuttering breath. “And then I’m sure again.”

She felt Spike swallow, and his arms clenched around her a little tighter. They sat in silence, Spike resting his chin on the crown of her bowed head. Finally, he tugged her left arm out from her body and poked at the rods, looking fascinated and slightly grossed out. “If it was only me, what’s the point of this contraption then?”

“So that I don’t have periods.”

“No monthlies? Well, that’s a damn shame.”

“Uh, not so shamey when every night means hours in a graveyard with things who already think you smell delicious without constant bleeding. Plus, there’s the bloating and cramps and tiredness.” Buffy paused, old regrets rising. “I didn’t do it for years. My first Watcher—a guy named Merrick—told me to take the pill, but I didn’t… It sounds stupid to you, probably, but I didn’t get much normalcy after the age of fifteen. Having a period was one of the few things that was, you know, a normal girl thing.”

Spike looked completely baffled. “Why the hell would you want to be normal?”

Buffy raised a brow. “You know nothing about the teenage girl psyche, do you?”

“Very little,” Spike admitted easily. “But I’ve eaten my fair share of teenage girls. And they’re usually idiotic little twits. Seems stupid to lower yourself to food when you’re the bloody apex predator.”

Buffy frowned, thoughts of Dawn swirling uneasily around her. This Spike would probably eat her without a second thought. “I didn’t want to  _be_  the apex predator all the time. I wanted… real life things.”

Spike looked disbelievingly amused at that. “If you say so. What changed your mind then?”

Buffy sighed. “A hell god. She was kicking my butt up one street and down the other, and it was already a god-awful year without a literal god throwing her hat into the ring.” Her throat tightened. “I just… I couldn’t have any weakness. I couldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t fail.”

Spike regarded her carefully. “Sounds like you didn’t, luv.”

She gave him a wan look. “In the way it mattered, no, I didn’t.”

 

***

 

Buffy had settled into silence on his lap a few minutes back, apparently deep in her thoughts, and Spike realized belatedly he was just sitting there, holding her and nuzzling into her hair. Fuck, he needed to dump her off and shag her blind before she got the wrong idea. Dru was the only one he was supposed to comfort this way.

And speaking of Dru… A shiver wound up his spine, making him stiffen abruptly.  _No._  It couldn’t be.

Buffy lifted her head from where she had settled tightly against his chest. “Spike?”

He rose, sliding Buffy off his lap and onto the mattress as he snagged his jeans. “Stay here.”

Not waiting for an answer, Spike swept out of the bedroom and into the hall. The sense of his sire had faded almost as soon as he'd felt it, but a ball of heavy unease still waited in his stomach. If his dark princess was here, there’d be no getting Buffy out alive.

And sod it all to hell, but the idea wasn’t supposed to invoke dread.

His mind whirled. If he had to kill her, he’d make sure he did it himself. Making Buffy into Dru’s plaything was out of the question. Although,  _fuck_ , just imagining the look of betrayal in the Slayer’s eyes made him wince. Quick, then. It would have to be quick. And he’d make it as painless as he could. But it still wouldn’t be a fitting end for any Slayer, never mind one like Buffy.

_God damnit, Dru!_

Growling with anger—at himself, at Dru, at Buffy—he yanked the flat door open.

The hall was empty. Frowning, Spike glanced down and froze. There on the hallway carpet was a human heart with a note pinned to it in Dru’s looped scrawl.

_Mummy misses you._

He stared at the note soundlessly until he felt Buffy come up beside him in the doorway, her rumpled dress again covering her.

“Told you to stay put,” he snarled, glaring at her.

Buffy gave him a hard look, then her gaze zeroed in on the heart, the thrumming pulse of her blood ratcheting up. “From Drusilla?”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

He watched Buffy turn away slightly. Her voice was low when she spoke. “She wants you to go back to her.”

“Did suss that out, Slayer, thanks ever so,” he said testily, unreasonably relieved and equally furious that he felt relieved. He wasn’t supposed to be relieved to find his sire gone.

There was a pause, then a quiet, “Are you going?”

The vulnerability in her voice drained his sudden anger. “I should,” he said evenly. “I keep away too long and Dru’s going to be brassed at me for a decade.”

Buffy turned back toward him, her eyes filled with luscious green fire. “Stay with me.”

His eyes flickered to the heart—Dru’s version of a peace offering, bless her wicked self. If he went back to her now, there’d be no groveling. It would be life as usual, and this little lapse in sanity with Buffy would end up as nothing more than a troublesome memory.

And the fact that Dru’d made the offering meant more than Buffy could possibly know. Dru may not have loved him the way he did her, but she cared for him in all the ways she could. He’d never doubted that. Not once. And he knew she really did miss him.

He bent down to pick up the heart, to Buffy’s distressed intake of breath. Bloody hell, it was still warm even. His fangs itched with desire.

Buffy watched him, her face pale. “Please.” There was an odd, unwilling tone to her voice.

He snorted as he pulled off the note and shoved it into his jeans pocket. “Not used to begging, are you, Slayer? Christ, woman, that couldn’t have sounded more forced if you tried.”

Buffy’s expression tightened and she looked away from him. “No, it’s just that begging has never kept anyone from leaving me.”

Oh, buggering hell.

Sighing, he vamped and sank his fangs into the heart that was now bleeding all over his hand. His fangs cut through it like butter, and lukewarm blood gushed down his throat. It was fucking fantastic. Draining it thoroughly, he tossed away the useless muscle into the adjoining kitchen, then licked his hand clean. When he looked over at Buffy again, she was watching him, her face scrunched up in revulsion.

“That was completely gross.”

“What? Wasn’t going to waste it. That was a perfectly good heart. And from the love of my life, no less.”

“…You’re leaving then?” Buffy’s voice was guarded, her body tense.

He licked his lips to get the last traces of blood from them. “Didn’t say that.”

Buffy’s pink lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

“We’ve a challenge to have out, don’t we?”

Buffy’s entire face brightened. “We do.”

“Don’t get to thinking this is some point in your favor, though, Slayer,” he warned her tightly, seeing the spark of hope in her gaze. “Not going to love you, no matter how long I stay.”

He watched Buffy flinch then lift her chin, her expression all steel. His prick hardened immediately in his jeans. “We’ll see about that.” Then, holding his gaze, she reached over and pulled the front door closed, shutting out the hallway and Dru and likely the last of his better sense.


	18. Possession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apparently felt driven to address Spike’s throwaway comment about Spangel intimacy (AtS 5.21) here. So there’s that. Also, brief memories of the screwed-up Scourge family dynamics as a whole. Ye have been warned.

“You know what I think?” Buffy said abruptly, once she’d shut the door to the flat and started leading the way back to the bedroom.

Spike arched a brow, giving the door one last glance as he followed her swing-hipped little frame. “Doubt it.”

Buffy turned and green eyes held him steadily, alight with mischief. “I think possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it and he prowled toward Buffy as they crossed the threshold into the bedroom, cornering her against the bed frame. “And just what,” he asked silkily, “is it that you think you possess of mine, Slayer?”

Buffy scanned his body, her expression theatrically wide-eyed and innocent as she leaned back on her elbows. “Oh, I’m sure there’s something.”

Then—before he had enough time to offer any good bit of riposting—Buffy had lifted one leg under his armpit and hitched the other around the back of his neck, and Spike found himself flipped over the Slayer’s head. He landed roughly on his back on the other side of the mattress, Buffy perched astride his stunned form.

Bloody hell.

The minx smirked as she untangled her legs and scooted slightly back, her hot little cunt pressing against his unfortunately jeans-imprisoned cock. Spike grabbed her hips and shoved her bunched up, poor excuse for a dress higher up her waist with a leer. “If you wanted me down here, luv, all you had to do was ask.”

“This way was more fun,” Buffy said lightly, running a finger down his sternum and sliding over to his left nipple to trace the silver bar there.

He swallowed against the light touch, his breath hissing out when her caress turned to a pinching hold, painful pleasure jolting straight down to his already uncomfortable stiffy.

“Why’d you get these?”

Spike snorted. “My piercings?” At her nod, he shrugged. “It was something new.” His eyes flicked down to where she was again tracing his nipple, just barely scraping the skin with her fingernails in a way that was about to drive him out of his sodding mind. “And as it seems you’ve sussed out, they’re nice baubles to be played with. Dru’s ripped them out once or twice but”—he smirked—“it’s worth the bother of repiercing.”

Buffy’s fingers paused, her gaze flicking toward the flat door. “Do you think Drusilla will come back?”

Unease coursed through him. “Dunno.” There was nothing to keep Dru from barging in at any moment, if she chose. Of course, of all the situations he didn’t want Dru to find him in, being happily straddled by the Slayer was somewhere near the top. Although… if Buffy was in a sharing mood, and Dru wasn’t in a jealous rage…

God, what a vision. Dark and light all tangled up with him, both of them soft and sharp and deadly. He could plunge his cock into a hot cunt while he cooled his mouth with an immortal one. His dick pressed against his jeans with increased urgency at the thought.

It was a shame his heart was violently opposed. No amount of blood down south was enough to overpower the violent lurch in his chest. Damnable thing. It didn’t seem to give a whit about his temporary abandonment of Dru (likely still sore over the future her who’d left him for a fucking chaos demon), but apparently a little threesome was enough to make it throw a hissy fit.

He’d had plenty of ménage-a-trois in his fledgling years, but that was just how the Scourge operated. Angelus wanted Spike to eat out Dru while she sucked Angelus’s prick? He did it. Angelus wanted to fist Spike’s arse while the elder vamp fucked Darla? He did it. Angelus wanted to fuck Spike while Darla whipped them both? He did it.

That wasn’t to say the acts weren’t often enjoyable. (Particularly, the time Angelus had been on a weird and short-lived submission kick was a pleasant memory. Spike had buggered his grandsire with vengeful force while Angelus fucked and drained some little morsel they’d taken from the street. Spike had sunk his fangs into his grandsire afterward and suckled from his throat until he was sated before continuing to pound Angelus raw.) But none of that had been about the sex; it was just power politics in play. Hell, the closest Spike had ever come to actually being intimate with Angelus had been not long after the git was saddled with a soul, though none of the rest of them had known about that little addition yet.

“Need some comfort tonight, m’boy,” Angel had said, looking unusually shaken. At first, Spike had tried to wave him off toward the women—not that he expected his protest to get anywhere—but Dru and Darla had departed for a girl’s night out and weren’t apparently back at the house yet, so Angel just came into bed without a care for Spike’s rejection. Par for the course with Angelus that part had been, but the desperate way he’d kissed Spike the minute after had thrown the younger vamp completely.

Spike had thought for sure it was some kind of game—it had never  _not_  been a game between them—but the whole time they were at it, Angel just acted like he wanted to get lost in fucking and being fucked. Spike—baffled but willing—had obliged him.

After the Scourge’s permanent break-up, though, the family politics had been null and void, and Spike gladly focused his attention solely on his dark princess. That kind of devotion was undoubtedly a pathetic leftover from his living years, but even a century hadn’t been able to shake it. He was just simply a one-woman vamp.

And right now, by that logic, he was Buffy’s vamp.

It wasn’t love, though. He knew love, and this wasn’t it. Love was fire—it was bloody burning from the inside out, so to speak. Of course, it seemed his future self had decided to go completely barmy and make the metaphor literal. The besotted bastard. Him of the now could still thankfully scoff at the idea of something so inane as dying in the Slayer’s name.

With a low growl, he sat up and threw Buffy from her perch on his clad cock, leaving her akimbo on the bare mattress as he tore her dress down the middle with an intensely satisfying ripping sound.

Buffy arched an annoyed brow at him. “How did I know you were going to do that?”

He gave her a hard look. “Because we both know you wore that cocktease of a thing wanting me to.” His eyes flicked hungrily down her naked form. She really was a glorious, golden creature. All that fucking bouncy hair now mussed into a wild tangle, and those perky rose-tipped tits, and those slender, powerful limbs.

Yeah, he’d continue to let this whole thing play out. He’d let Buffy possess him for a while. Chances were good he’d grow tired of her soon and then he’d remember that he was better off killing the bint over shagging her.

He crawled up her body on his hands and knees, trailing a line of kisses up her belly as she clutched the bare mattress.

“Just like we both know I want to kill you,” he whispered, looking up at her from under his lashes as he ran his tongue along the salt-tanged skin between her breasts.

Buffy’s chest hitched slightly—either at his words or his tongue—but she didn’t move otherwise, just watched him with unreadable jade pool eyes. The corners of his mouth quirked up at her obstinacy.

“And like we both know you want to die. Even just a little bit.” The chits were dauntless and unwavering in the face of death—being death-dealers themselves—but telling them they  _wanted_  it? That they craved the taste of that failure and letting their great burden go? That always got them in a delicious little tizzy. His tongue flicked out to lash against a nipple, to Buffy’s squirming gasp. “It’s in your blood, sweetheart—that kind of want. No matter how you fight it, all Slayers have a deathwish.”

Of course, he should’ve guessed that Buffy—the little Miss of not following the fucking rules of being a Slayer—wouldn’t react how he expected.

Instead, she bloody well threw her head back and giggled at him.

_Giggled._

“You think I’m kidding?” he snarled indignantly.

Buffy raised her head to look at him with barely concealed amusement. “Nope. I know you’re not. It’s just that you’re a little late for that…” She scrunched up her nose. “Or like twenty years too early.”

“Come again?”

“I’ve died twice.” She frowned. “No, three times.”

He stared at her, flabbergasted. “Making a habit of it, are you?”

A wry, tight expression crossed her face. “I hope not.” A slight shrug. “The first time was just for a minute, anyway. A tiny bit of CPR and I was back in business. If not for Kendra, I would have said it barely qualified.”

“Who in the bleeding hell is Kendra?”

“She was a Slayer.”

Would it kill the chit to make sense? Spike glared at her in confusion. “Before you were Called, you mean?”

“No, after.”

“Come again?”

Buffy looked like she might laugh in his face. The bitch. “Funny thing… when a Slayer dies, even for minute like with me, the mystical who-sits apparently still Call the next girl.”

He blinked. “Christ. That’s a hell of a loophole, Slayer.”

“You’re telling me.”

“So there’re two Slayers running about in your time, then?”

“Um, there was for a while.”

He lifted a brow. “What, did the spare one croak?”

“No. Well, she did, actually, but... something else happened.” Buffy took a deep breath, her slender chest heaving up. “Long story short, by the time I came here, there were, uh, thousands.”

“Thousands?”

“Of Slayers.”

He stared at her. “Well now, that’s just cheating.”

Buffy really did laugh then, before rolling them again so that she was once more perched atop him. “You’re just mad you’re not there.”

He snorted. “Hardly. With that many Slayers, every demon with half a brain cell and any luck would be able to claim he was a Slayer of Slayers. No sodding thanks.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, shifting on his lap in just the way that drew a groan from between his lips. The sound pulled Buffy’s gaze down to his jeans, and she frowned at them. “Why are you still wearing these?”

He pressed his tongue behind his teeth in a suggestive smirk as he ran his palms up her sides to cup her firm little breasts. “Got a bit distracted. Want to do the honors?”

Eyes half-lidded, she nodded, a small little mewl escaping her throat as he brushed his thumbs across her nipples. Still, her hands were sure and deft as she unzipped him. He exhaled in relief as his cock bobbed free, lifting his hips as Buffy scooted back, tugging his trousers down his legs and tossing them to the floor. Spike made to pull her forward to straddle him again—having her on top with her hair bouncing sounded fucking fantastic—but Buffy shook her head, crouching in between his legs and resting her hands on his inner thighs.

“Nu uh.”

A jolt of delighted surprise ran through him. “Going to suck my cock, are you, pet?”

Buffy wrinkled her nose at the blunt words—the bint was the strangest mix of prudish and wanton—then seemed to recover and met his gaze squarely. “That was the plan.”

“A battle plan?”

Some kind of faint, tired amusement was in her eyes. “A tried and true one.”

“Well, have at it then, luv.” He smirked. “We’ll see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

It turned out that it didn’t take more than Buffy licking his shaft like a fucking ice lolly and squeezing his balls with just a touch of her Slayer strength for him to realize she wasn’t just good at handling his dick; she was bloody brilliant at it.

Spike’s fingers twined into her hair, holding the mass of it in a tight grip atop her head as her hot mouth plunged up and down his shaft, her tongue flicking back and forth with every stroke. His breath escaped him in a hoarse gasp as she nibbled lightly around his foreskin then feathered his cockhead with light kisses that lit his every muscle with lightning. “Buffy.”

Buffy made a low, pleasured hum in her throat in reply, the vocalization vibrating against his dick. He groaned helplessly, his fingers tightening in her soft locks as he resisted the urge to close his eyes. Buffy’s pouting lips taking in his cock was a divine sight. He shuddered as her hot breath cascaded over his cock when she released his shaft, and panic filled him.

“Fuck, Slayer, don’t stop.”

Buffy gave him a satisfied, innocent little smile. The devious bint. “Pleading for mercy already?”

He growled at her.

Buffy grinned and lowered herself to his balls, fervently pulling them into her mouth one at a time as she fisted his cock.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped, falling back fully onto the mattress as the hot, tickling swell of pleasure tightened around his cock and balls. “Slayer,” he warned hoarsely.

Buffy seemed to get the message, because she quickly moved her mouth back to his shaft and sucked at him with such enthusiasm that he was coming almost before he realized it, all the pressure exploding from him in a shattering, mind-numbing wave. He cried out as he pulsed into Buffy’s mouth, his back arching against the force of his release.

When Buffy abandoned his prick and crawled up to his chest, he was still laying on the mattress like a completely useless git; as undone by the Slayer swallowing his come as by the fact that he’d just had one of the most brilliant orgasms of his life. Buffy look at him with amused expectancy, her mouth beautifully swollen and red.

“Well?”

He swallowed. “My dick has thrown in the towel.”

Buffy laughed, then rolled her eyes. “That body part flew the white flag of surrender like two weeks ago, Spike.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s pledged fealty.”

“Oh? I like the sound of that.” She ran a finger across his hipbone, teasing and light. “Think my new vassal is up for another round?”

His cock twitched, stirring back to life. Spike lifted himself up on his elbows, keeping Buffy tight against his chest. She was practically dripping, her arousal filling his nostrils so heavily that all he smelled was Buffy. He lifted up her leg, throwing it over his own, and then plunged into her soft, sopping cunt as he kissed her with rough possession. She tasted gorgeously of his cock and her own spit, and he greedily plundered her mouth with his tongue, taking in all the flavors. Buffy moaned and lifted her hips to meet his every thrust, her fingers buried in his hair.

Unexpectedly, she drew back from him after a minute of snogging, her eyes glazed but serious as he thrusted rhythmically into her. “Thank you.”

Spike stilled in surprise. “For what?”

Buffy’s countenance turned vulnerable and young looking. “For… for staying."

His chest lurched. “Not giving you anything I’m not getting back,” he told her harshly, resuming his thrusts for emphasis.

Buffy didn’t say anything to that, but the grateful edge to her expression didn’t fade, no matter how hard he tried to fuck it away.


	19. New Depths

Spike woke to the prickled warning of sunrise dancing down his spine and teasing lips moving just below his heart. Buffy’s body was nearly atop his, strands of her hair splayed over his chest and right shoulder, and the weight of her head resting on his sternum. Well, he’d certainly had less pleasant awakenings; if Buffy wanted to rouse him this way for another go-round, he wasn’t about to complain. He nearly announced his wakefulness with a pointed “A bit lower, luv,” then abruptly realized the touch wasn’t amorous. Instead, the small whispers of air against his skin were a product of Buffy speaking—so soft and muffled he had to concentrate for a moment before any of the words filtered in coherently.

“… I didn’t tell her, you know. She just thought it was a random mission in Africa. I didn’t want to get her hopes up. After... god, she was so devastated when she looked around the bus and realized you weren’t there.” There was a barely audible laugh, and then an edge of amused pride in Buffy's voice. “Apparently she said something about setting you on fire?” A pause. “She wouldn’t have, you know. Dawnie still loved you, even then. She was just… really, really angry.”

Dawnie? That sounded vaguely familiar. Spike’s memory flashed back to the subway with Buffy.  _Dawn’s my little sister._  So, the Slayer’s kid sis had threatened to set him on fire because he brassed her off? Amused admiration surged through him. What a feisty little niblet.

Buffy's warm hand slid down his chest, gently meandering as it traced his skin, and it took all of Spike’s self-control not to arch against the touch. Better to stay quiet for a tick and see if any other interesting tidbits spilled from the Slayer’s mouth.

“I have no idea what the hell I’m doing,” Buffy whispered then. Well, that was interesting indeed. “But Dawn would probably have you wrapped around her little finger by now. I remember… well, not a real memory, I guess, but… when you came back to the house after Drusilla dumped you”—Spike’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest—“and you and mom and Dawnie were at the kitchen counter drinking hot chocolate. I didn’t hear what you said, but it must’ve been funny because Dawn burst into laughter and hot chocolate shot straight out her nose. And it was the weirdest thing ever to walk into. As in, I almost felt bad for barging in. But then Angel showed up at the door, so it went downhill anyway.”

Angel? Wasn’t the prat off enjoying a nice eternal vacation in hell by then?

“Dawn was so mad when I pinned you against the counter.”

Sounded like a nice spot of foreplay to him.

“Of course, that wasn’t the worst ‘I hate Buffy because she’s mean to Spike’ time,” Buffy added after a moment. “You have no idea the kind of sisterly fallout there was when it turned out our engagement was spell-induced insanity.”

Spike stiffened.  _Engagement?_

Luckily, Buffy didn’t seem to notice the small movement. “Dawn was such a jealous brat when I called to give the 'happy' news—her crush on you even then was stupidly strong. Although, in retrospect, thank god she was the one home and not Mom when I called.”

So the bitty Buffy had been smitten with the Big Bad, had she?

“And then, inevitably, she called me back like ten minutes later squealing.” There was a pause, and he had the feeling Buffy was rolling her eyes. “I think she nearly broke the phone with that pitch. You know the one.”

_No, I don’t, luv, and my eardrums prolly thank me._

“When I got home after the spell…” She paused and there was a weary sigh. “It was really sweet of Dawnie, actually. She’d started all these wedding to-do lists and had sketched out like five bridesmaid dress ideas. Of course, when I gave her the run-down on the situation, she ripped them all to shreds, then ran to her room and slammed the door. She didn’t talk to me for a week.”

He held in a grin. Quite the little hotheaded terror, that niblet.

There was a longer silence then and Spike suspected Buffy might’ve finished her solo conversation. Unwilling disappointment bubbled up in his chest, dissipating as Buffy drew in a purposeful breath.

“I keep thinking maybe this entire thing is insane, and maybe I should just cut my losses and go back to 2003,” came the next words, nearly inaudible, and Spike grew deathly still. “But then—and you’ll find this hysterically ironic—Xander keeps stopping me.”

Who the bleeding hell was Xander?

“He gave me this huge long speech when Riley was about to take off to become Mr. Amazon Army Guy after our big blow-up, all about how Riley was my once-in-a-lifetime kind of romance and how—if I thought I could love him—I needed to get my act together and fight for him.”

Spike barely stopped a low growl. Fight for him? Sodding hell, if the wanker was stupid enough to want to call it quits on a woman like Buffy, he wasn’t worth fighting for in the first place.

There was a heavy, defeated sigh. “And I was too late. Do you know how much it sucks to watch your boyfriend fly off and realize that you’ve just lost everything because you stopped trying?” A pause followed by a tiny laugh. “Actually, I’m sure you don’t, unless there’s something major about your dating history that I’ve missed.”

Spike internally rolled his eyes. The chit really thought she was funny.

“But it stuck with me,” Buffy continued after a moment, grim again. “And I added it to the gigantic list of ‘ways Buffy has failed in love.’” There was a small exhale of breath, and he could practically hear the wheels turning in her brain. “The thing is, honestly? I’m not sure I was ready for that kind of love. Between Glory and mom and life, there just wasn’t  _space_  for Riley. And maybe he wouldn’t have even fit if I could find room. Who knows?” The hand on Spike’s chest started tracing a random circular pattern for a long, silent minute. “But I have space now,” came the eventual, barely-there whisper. “And I don’t want to stop trying.”

His chest lurched with now-familiar Buffy pangs. Christ, why did she keep doing this to him?

Buffy’s voice turned wry. “Of course, Xander would so hate knowing his words have become all pro-Spike.” Another pause. “Or maybe not. Ever since Anya… well, he’s mellowed. And you dying to save the world sort of took the wind out of his sails.”

Wait just a bloody minute. He’d saved the sodding  _world_? The Slayer had forgotten to mention that his poncy future self’s last battle had been of the apocalyptic variety. Well, Spike grudgingly admitted, at least he'd had the sense to go out in a blaze of glory. Wasn’t much that could probably top that kind of martyrdom, in white hat terms.

Buffy fell quiet again and this time she seemed done speaking for good. Probably for the best, considering she’d left him in a lump of unwilling knots. God fucking damnit. The last thing he wanted to do was care about her now-wrecked future, or her sodding little sis, or her waste of breathing space of a former.

This couldn’t go on.

But before he could think any further than that, he felt Buffy sit up and lightly shove his shoulder, her voice all loud perk and sunshine. “Time to rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

Spike gave up on the pretense of sleep with a growl of manufactured irritation, cracking open one eye. “In case you bloody well forgot, Slayer, daytime is when vampires sleep.”

Buffy shrugged, her Stepford façade fading to seriousness. “I need to go,” she said quietly. “I’d better get back to the factory before my roommates take me for dead. And I have to work in a couple hours.”

He arched a brow. “Right then. Bugger off.” Then he snapped his eye shut again in clear dismissal.

There was a moment of silence after his words, then the weight of Buffy disappeared from him and lifted from the bed, followed by the soft slide of fabric on skin. A minute later, there was the sound of her retreating footsteps and the snick of the front door opening and shutting.

It didn’t occur to him to wonder exactly what the Slayer had dressed in until she’d been gone for several minutes. He frowned and sat up, scanning the room.

_Oh, you right bitch._

She’d taken his coat.

 

***

 

Having Spike’s coat wrapped around her naked body was unexpectedly one of the most intimate things Buffy had ever experienced. The duster had always been such an extension of him—armor and trophy and reputation marker—that she’d never really considered it as a singular entity.

On its own, the garment was still impressive: heavy with thick black leather, a hem that went nearly to the base of her heels, and sleeves that drew down almost to her fingertips; slim enough that it managed to embrace instead of swallow her frame when buttoned. The interior lining was a pitcher black than the leather and soft as silk, rubbing sensuously against her nipples and ass. The collar and lapels were a comforting weight around her neck and shoulders. The pockets that Spike so easily and often dipped into were just slightly too low for her grasp, so she hitched up the sides a little and let her fingers explore their contents as she walked back to the factory. She found the expected essentials in the left pocket—matches, a pack of Morley cigarettes, and a small wad of crumpled bills and various coins. The right pocket held a black eyeliner pencil, a couple studded black leather bracelets, and a ticket stub for  _Star Wars_. Andrew would have been so proud of that last item. And insanely jealous. Buffy eyed the stub with rising amusement. It was dated from just a few days before she’d landed on Spike’s head and—since she highly doubted her sister Slayer had been an after-dark moviegoer—likely meant Spike had saved the scrap of paper and then later purposefully stashed it inside his leather prize. God, he’d always been such a weird vampire. She replaced the stub into his pocket with a smile.

Buffy entered the factory still smiling, and found a yawning Val eying her from the kitchen as she sat in the eat-in with a bowl of cereal. “Hey, girl. Late night?”

Buffy's fingers toyed with a button. “Yeah.”

“That’s that Brit punk’s coat, isn’t it?” Val lifted a brow. “The ‘not a good guy’ with the white hair who stopped by?”

Damn. Why did Spike have to be so memorable? “That’s the one,” Buffy admitted.

Val grinned at her, a twinkle in her eyes that was immensely reminiscent of Faith. “Well, he must be good at something.”

Buffy couldn’t help but laugh. “Several somethings.”

Val lifted her cereal spoon in tribute. “I feel ya. My last boyfriend before Steve was just like that. He could screw me into the ground like nobody’s business.” She shrugged. “Not the kind of guy I wanted around for the long haul, though.”

Buffy swallowed, turning toward the living room. “Unfortunately, I want mine around.”

“Good luck with that.”

Buffy tossed her a wry smile over her shoulder. “Oh, I don’t have luck. I have collateral.”

 

***

 

Sunset took for fucking ever to arrive. Spike paced irritably at the entrance to his temporary flat building as he watched the shadows lengthen. And bloody hell, he couldn’t even smoke because the Slayer had nicked his fags along with his coat.

He was going to kill her.

Finally, it appeared he could risk the outdoors without chance of dusting, and he angrily swept toward the factory, only to find Buffy’s roommate chit outside smoking by the loading dock. She blew a ring of smoke at him from beneath a mop of dark curls, her eyes lingering on his bare arms with a knowing glint.

“Looking to get something back?”

Spike narrowed his eyes at her. “Yeah. Just like Streisand is looking to get her hair back.”

The woman snorted, patting her curls. “I was going more for the Pam Grier look, but I’ll take it.”

“Not enough negro for that, luv.”

The chit shrugged. “On my dad’s side.” She flicked away her cigarette. “Buffy headed off toward the Village.”

“Ta.” Spike nodded to her briefly and made to turn on his heel, then paused as something undefined stirred in his gut. “Best not linger in the dark. Curvy bird like you makes a tasty morsel for bad men like me.”

The bird snorted. “I can take care of myself.” Then her gaze sharpened on him and a slow grin stole across her lips. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, dude.”

Spike didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. Scowling, he swept back onto the street. The Slayer was checking out the Village, was she? His eyes narrowed in thought. There were plenty of easy hunting grounds in maze of the West Village, with NYU co-eds wandering about at all hours.

Speaking of which… He glanced around as he walked. Smatterings of lovely-smelling meals were on all sides, turning his peckishness into bright desire. He was tempted to haul a lone one off to the side along the way, but decided against it after a minute’s contemplation.

First the Slayer. Then a bite. Or maybe he’d just bite the Slayer. It would serve her right, the thieving little harpy.

 

***

 

Someone, Buffy considered, had to have been on acid while building the Greenwich Village neighborhood. She had passed the intersection of Waverly Place and Waverly Place half an hour ago, a thing that was apparently possible when a street switched traffic direction midway and decided to intersect itself. She had since stumbled into no small number of random dead-ends that led into abandoned courtyards, and odd sections of cobblestoned road that ended almost as soon as they began.

Thankfully, her clearly aimless wandering through the somewhat dimly lit west side of the Village made her an easy target for vampires. It was always nice when they didn’t make her work for it.

As if on cue, her third vampire ‘savior’ of the night strolled right up to her, apparently too young to understand the warning signals of Slayer that his body was telling him, or to recognize the black leather coat she was wearing.

“Hey, baby,” he purred at her, looking incredibly ridiculous in top-to-bottom brown corduroy. “You’re looking a little lost. Something I can help you with?”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what you can help with,” Buffy said with a small smile, biting her bottom lip seductively as she sashayed toward him.

She could practically see the yellow shoot through the fledge’s eyes at her reply. He leered in the near dark as he swaggered toward her. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

When he lunged for her throat a moment later, Buffy just rolled her eyes and drew the stake out from behind her back. Sadly, she didn’t get more than halfway toward the idiot’s chest when he burst into dust, his head ripped neatly from his shoulders. And there stood Spike, glaring at her through amber eyes and the fledge’s falling remains.

“Slayer.” His voice was dark and menacing, his gaze sliding down her with slow threat. “I think I you have something of mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you’re wondering, yes, Spike went to opening night of Episode IV of Star Wars. (For anyone unfamiliar, that’s the first one.) Considering the casual Yoda reference in School Hard, I daren’t think otherwise.


	20. Blood Will Work Its Will

God, Buffy looked good in his coat. It was a touch big on her, of course—Nikki had been taller, and noticeably wider in the hips and shoulders—but the extra fabric just made her look all the more delectable; a black leather present he needed to unwrap. Only, he wanted the bloody wrapping paper as much as he wanted what was inside.

It had only been a couple weeks, but he already felt naked without his duster, like his reputation had been shorn in half along with his wardrobe. Not to mention, the leather had just finally stopped smelling quite so much like Nikki—with her mix of spicy oranges and her sprog and Slayer musk. He eyed Buffy intently, his gaze tracing the light sheen of sweat coating her skin. Even covered in her flowered skirt and blouse get-up, the scent of her living body was probably seeping into the lining. And hell, she’d worn it naked this morning; it was going to smell of her for weeks. Months, maybe.

The desire to shag her blind against the nearest available surface was suddenly as insistent as the desire to snap her thieving little neck.

Buffy pulled back her half-extended stake and slipped it inside his duster pocket, her expression amused and innocent. “Oh, you want the coat back? I thought I’d just add it to the collection of things I own of yours.”

A heavy growl rumbled through Spike’s chest. “You’re about to own my fangs in your neck,” he told her blackly.

His fist shot toward her face and Buffy blocked, leaving his knuckles to crash against her leather-clad forearms in the most jarring déjà vu. But the Slayer’s face staring back at him was no more like Nikki’s than noon to midnight, and bright with arch humor.

“You’ll have to get them there first, Spikey.”

The nickname made him pause for a split second, his nose scrunching in disgust, and Buffy kicked him straight in the ribs, sending him stumbling backward. He snarled and lunged toward her again, throwing a flurry of punches. One knocked Buffy back into a brick wall, her breath whooshing painfully through parted lips.

Spike glared at her through his demon’s eyes. “Just because the poncy other me never beat you doesn’t mean I won’t.”

Buffy recovered her stance with a shrug. "Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t." A small, seductive smile curved up her lips, and she sashayed toward him, the hem of his coat sweeping beautifully behind her. Christ, she really did look like an angel of death. She stopped inches from him, close enough that her arousal swamped his senses. "But that’s the fun of it, isn’t it, Big Bad?”

Before he could reply, Buffy wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled his head down, kissing him fiercely around his fangs. He groaned against her lips, fervently giving his reply as the points of his fangs nicked her skin. A slow trickle of Slayer blood slid into his mouth for the first time in seven decades, heavy with heat and power, burning with life. All his murderous intentions fled.

Right then. Shagging her blind it was.

He reached out to tug her closer, but Buffy broke the kiss in the same moment, her cheeks flushed and lips painted red. Then she backhanded him. Hard.

Pain exploded across his cheek as he was flung back on his arse to the pavement. Stunned and furious, Spike snarled and lifted himself to his feet. “What the fuck is your problem, Slayer?”

Buffy just held up a finger, green eyes sparkling. “Point to me.”

A bark of surprised laughter escaped him. The Slayer wanted to play.

So, truthfully, did he. Two weeks, and he hadn’t really fought her properly. They’d been penned in at the Watcher’s flat, all their movements stilted by walls—reduced to tight throws and heavy grappling. And their initial tryst in the CB’s alley hardly counted; they’d gone through a dozen movements at best. But here, in this little side street with the houses all dark and the road deserted, there wasn’t a bloody thing in the way.

A grin slid across his features as he stalked toward Buffy, anticipation lighting in his veins.

“That was dirty pool,” he told her casually, when he was within striking distance, releasing a tight left hook toward her face.

She ducked and came back up with a kick to his chin that slammed his fangs down into the soft tissue of his lower lip. “As if you wouldn’t do the same.”

He grinned, wiping away a bead of blood as it dripped down his chin. “Oh, that wasn’t a criticism, Slayer.” He exchanged a hard set of blows with her, unable to keep his eyes from the way his duster swung around her small frame. “Nikki had a touch of your style, but she was still by the book.” He caught her with an unforgiving low kick to the back of her knee. “You’re all over the bloody place.”

She winced as his foot slammed into her leg, but still managed to send a hard cross-hook-cross combination his way. “I call it my ‘staying alive style.'”

He chuckled, whirling to avoid a savage roundhouse kick. “Don’t think it’s working, luv. Since you’ve apparently died, what did you say—three times?”

Buffy met his body hook with a hard block. “None of them”—jab, kick—“were while fighting.”

The kick flung him back against the edge of the nearest house, brick jabbing into his shoulder blades. He righted himself with a grunt. “No?”

“Nope. The first time,” Buffy panted, stumbling back as an uppercut snapped up her chin, “I got thralled and drowned.”

Spike paused, brow rising. “ _Drowned_?”

“Yeah. Sad, right?” Buffy whirled and they traded another set of blows.

“I’ll say.”

“Second time,” she said as she flipped back to avoid his body kick, “I jumped off a tower.”

“Testing out gravity the Acme way, were you?”

Buffy’s expression grew deadly serious. “No,” she said simply, dodging a hard blow. “There was a hell portal that needed closing. I could either let Dawn die, or do it myself. So I did it myself.”

Spike’s next punch faltered under a rush of unexpected, uneasy emotion. “The Niblet?”

Buffy paused, her eyes widening almost comically. “What… what did you call her?”

Oh bollocks. The last thing he needed was for Buffy to know he'd heard more about the little chit than her name. He shrugged indifferently. “What? She’s the kid sis you mentioned on the train, right? Guessing she was hardly big enough for a nibble, if she’s as tiny as you are.”

 

***

 

Spike remembered Dawnie just from one or two mentions? Buffy eyed him carefully. “She was taller than me by the time I came here. Really skinny, though.”

Spike shrugged, looking away from her. “Still a nibble, then. Height’s all bone and sinew.”

Despite his casual tone, his body was suspiciously telegraphing unease.

The penny dropped.

“Oh my god. You were awake this morning.”

Spike's expression was panicked then defiant. His chin lifted pugnaciously.  “So what if I was?”

Buffy knew her face was turning red, embarrassment coursing strong and swift. “You weren’t supposed to hear any of that,” she mumbled.

His head cocked at her in that quintessential Spike way. “That so? Sounded to me like I was just the person it was meant for.” His eyes narrowed. “And you don’t have a leg to stand on, you bloody sneak thief.”

She glared at him. “I didn’t exactly have much else to wear. And you were being avoid-y.”

Although at least now she knew why.

Spike opened his mouth only to shut it again. Nostrils flaring, he pointed an accusing finger at her. “If your former didn't know what he had in you, he likely couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the instructions on the sodding heel, and your mate was a bloody stupid git to send you chasing him.”

Buffy gaped at him. “Riley? That’s what you got out of all of that?  _Riley_?”

Spike threw up his hands, pacing and not looking at her, his gaze inward and intent. Buffy had no idea what had happened to their fight.

“And your kid sis sounds like she knew just how to drive you around the bend. Smart girl.” He halted, turning on his heel and glaring at her. “And you didn’t tell me I saved the fucking  _world_.”

A small, disbelieving noise escaped her throat. “I didn’t realize it would matter.”

There was a pause. “It…” Spike shook his head and went back to pacing. He stopped again. “And what the fuck was with that mention of Angel? Wasn’t the prat in hell by then?”

“Um. Hell sort of spit him back out.”

That earned her a derisive snort. “Figures.”

More pacing.

Another pause. Amber eyes bore into her. “What was the third time?”

“The third... time?”

“The third time you died,” Spike demanded impatiently, striding toward her. “I got the drowning and the Geronimo for god and country. What’s the third?”

“Gunshot wound to the chest.”

Spike’s eyes widened. “Someone  _shot_  you?” He made a disgusted, scoffing sound. “Bloody coward.”

“Try ‘psychotic teenager.’”

His gaze flicked down to her chest, lingering on the heart he couldn’t see but she knew he could hear. “How’d you come back?”

“Same way I came back the second time. Willow.”

His brow furrowed adorably. “The tree?”

“No, my friend Willow. She’s a really powerful witch.”

Spike looked uneasy. “A witch pulled you out of death twice? That’s some heavy magic, pet.”

“I know. I didn’t ask for it. Either time.”

Spike surveyed her silently, his expression narrow and scrutinizing. Then he closed the gap between them and pulled her—his—coat lapels into his grasp, smashing his mouth against hers.

His fangs bit into her lips again, sharp pain against swelling pleasure, his hips thrusting demandingly against her own. When she was about to push him away—for need of oxygen, if nothing else—Spike’s mouth moved down to her jaw, nipping and nuzzling its way to her neck, as his hand tugged his coat back against her shoulders, trying to push it down and away. She was distracted by the motion; the biting prick of his fangs in her jugular didn’t register until pain lanced through her neck.

She gasped and shoved Spike backward with a quick thrust against his sternum, her other hand rising to staunch the wound. Warmth and wet slipped through her fingers, the skin stinging. “What the hell are you doing!”

Spike grinned ferally, his mouth red with her blood. “That’s a point to me, Slayer.” His amber eyes fluttered closed as he licked his lips. “God, your blood is a revelation."

Buffy glared at him, unable to keep from trembling. “You do that again, and I’ll stake you.”

Spike’s guise shifted back to human as he curled his tongue behind his teeth, his blue eyes wicked. “Oh, luv. You don’t know what you’re missing. Bit of a bite when you’re about to come, and I’ll have you screaming in all the right ways.” He nodded toward the hand holding pressure over her neck. “And you didn’t let me get that closed. You’re going to make a mess of my leather.”

“You think I care?”

Spike lifted a brow. “You want to be all sticky around the collar, you be my guest. Not to mention, you’re going to attract every kind of nasty from here to the Bronx.”

Buffy swallowed. He hadn’t bitten her hard, but he’d gotten the vein while making his point.

He'd bitten her.

She’d never let Spike bite her in Sunnydale. He’d wanted to, of course—first as an aside to killing her, then out of starvation-induced bloodlust, then from lust of the plain carnal kind.  _I’ll make it so good for you, Buffy_ , he’d whispered pleadingly as he lay between her thighs.  _It’ll feel so fucking great you won’t even know your own name._ He’d almost convinced her with that line—it was why she went to him, after all. To escape the existence of Buffy Summers. But the temptation had never been enough to override the fact that letting him bite her meant in some way surrendering to him. And  _that_  she had absolutely refused to do.

Buffy moved her hand from her neck. “Close it.”

Surprise blossomed in Spike’s eyes, but he didn’t waste any time. He strode back to her, grabbing the wrist of her bled-on hand in a tight grip. Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand to his mouth and slid his tongue up her palm, the touch cool and wet and humming erotically through every nerve.

“Oh-h.” The word escaped in a breathy whisper.

He released her hand, his gaze intent and dark. A low, demanding rumble coursed through his chest. “Take it off.”

Wordlessly, Buffy let his duster fall from her shoulders to puddle at her feet.

“Good girl.”

He stepped forward again and brushed her hair away from her neck. There was a brief pause—she didn’t know if it was hesitation or evaluation or savoring, then his mouth was suckling at her pulse point, his tongue gently laving the wounds as his hands drew possessively around her hips.

“You loved me,” she found herself saying in a panting shudder, fingers gripping the curve of his bare shoulders.

Spike stilled, his mouth still pressed against her skin. “Yeah. And?”

“You begged. You begged me to let you bite me, and I never did.”

She could feel him grin against her skin. “I didn’t exactly ask this time, luv.”

Her breath huffed out in a small laugh, ruffling the hair on the back of his head. “I know.” A sudden suspicion struck. “Whose marks did you bite over?”

She didn’t even get a denial. “Whose do you think?”

“If you were in 2003, I’d say Angel’s.”

“But?”

“Well, I’m not sure what… Does the Master’s bite mean anything to you? You’d never really said.”

Spike shrugged against her. “Technically, as Batface is head of the Aurelians, it should.”

“But it doesn’t.”

His lips rose to tease her earlobe. “Not a whit.”

“’Kay. So not him.” She swallowed as Spike ground her slowly, teasingly into his erection. “And Dracula… I don’t know, is there some gross desire to erase his marks and ‘keep it in the family’?”

There was a low laugh. “Maybe for some, pet.”

“So it  _was_  Angel’s mark.”

“Bloody right it was.”

“This version of you hasn’t seen him in like a hundred years.”

Spike pulled back from her neck to survey her with amusement, though he kept her locked in a tight embrace. “Closer to thirty, Slayer.”

“Really?"

"Yeah." Spike shrugged. "Ran into the Poof during WWII."

"Huh. Angel never mentioned that."

"He wouldn't, I bet." Spike stepped away from her, his ardor apparently cooling from all the talk of Angel. He knelt and scooped up his duster from the ground, shaking it carefully to dislodge any invisible debris before sliding it on with a pleasured sigh.

“Is all right with the world now?”

He brushed a tender hand down the lapel, pointedly ignoring the sarcasm in her tone. “Bloody right it is. It's not every day a vampire gets a trophy like this one.”

Buffy regarded him carefully. In the shadowed lighting of the street, every inch of him looked the proud predator, sleek and deadly. She pressed a tentative finger to her neck. It was no longer bleeding. “On my more morbid days, I used to wonder what trophy you’d take from me if you killed me.”

Spike barely glanced at her. “A lock of your hair.”

“Okay, I don’t know whether to be impressed or just grossed out that you had that answer ready.”

He chuckled. “It’s the only bit of you I’d want.”

“Gee, aren’t you the charmer.”

Spike finally looked at her fully, something turmoiled flickering across his expression. “Everything else I like about you,” he said at last, jaw clenched, “seems to have to do with you being alive and kicking.” He paused, brow furrowing. “Could be why I failed so miserably at knocking you off in the future.”

She had no idea what to say to that. “Oh.”

“Your hair on the other hand…” He stepped back into her space and stroked a lock of hair that was resting over her left breast. “It's bloody distracting, bouncing around like a damn shampoo commercial. Goldilocks come to life. ”

Her breath caught in her chest.

“Alright there?”

“You… you called me that before.”

Spike tilted his head in question. “What? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah.”

“Not surprised.”

They stared at each other, and Buffy’s could feel her blood thrumming, pounding in her ears, pulsing on the side of her stinging neck.

Spike was the first to move, pursing his lips and turning away. “Come on then, Slayer.”

Buffy exhaled shakily. “Where are we going?”

“Ever been to Washington Square?”

“Spike, I’d never been to anywhere in New York before this.”

“Well, then." He shifted on the balls of his feet, suddenly energetic. "Might as well sightsee while you’re here.”

Buffy raised a brow as she surveyed his face, lingering on his split lip and the several bruises blooming on his cheeks and brow. “You don’t think the fact that we both look like we just got mugged will cause problems?”

“Nah." He grinned at her. "And with that spot of your blood, my blemishes'll be gone in an hour."

"Oh, goody. I'll just be the lone muggee, then."

Spike snorted and gestured impatiently. “Let's go, Slayer.”

There was something familiar in his demeanor as he said it, some kind of softness in his eyes and in the edges of his mouth that hadn't been there earlier. Her memory flashed back to when Spike'd had her at his First-controlled mercy in the house basement. When he'd licked her shoulder and something in her blood had broken the spell and returned him to himself.  _It was like_ _a piece of you burned through me, and I could feel you there, knocking out the voice in my head_ , he'd said quietly.  _I could feel you._ Had something similar happened to this Spike? Had he felt an echo of who she saw when she looked at him—of who he could be again?

Buffy strode over and stood beside his antsy form, her fingers just brushing the sleeve of his duster. "Yes, let's go."


	21. Washington Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tremendous thanks to yellowb for ensuring Washington Square is as it should be.

He hadn’t meant to let it slip that he liked Buffy, but now that he’d admitted it, he couldn’t pretend any longer that it wasn’t true. Worse yet, he hadn’t stopped there; he’d admitted he liked her best  _alive_. And now he was willingly escorting her around the Village like a bloody tour guide.

Christ. Dru had been right. He was out of his portrait—out of his damn mind.

It didn’t help that the sense of Buffy was overwhelming. She was walking so close that they were nearly touching elbows. His spine itched with constant Slayer warning and his nostrils were filled with the perfume of her body—made doubly worse by her brief possession of his coat. And her blood was coursing through him, the power keeping him warm and hard and near to bursting.

Every step increased the urge to pull Buffy to the side and shag her until kingdom come, but with how his mouth had already been spouting off tonight, he wasn’t about to trust himself while balls deep in Slayer.

Taking her for a bit of sightseeing was a safer bet, all told.

Buffy glanced over at him. “So, what’s special about Washington Square?”

“Nothing special about it, Slayer. It’s just a place.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “But we’re going there?”

Spike shrugged. “It’s a bit of a kick. Buskers and the like.” When Buffy stared blankly at him, he clarified, “Street performers, luv.”

Her gaze cleared. “Oh.” She didn’t say anything else until they were crossing the grassy lawn toward the central plaza. People milled through the small space, heading toward the central fountain or wandering off to watch the myriad of nighttime performers spread around it. The rundown marble archway came into sight and Buffy made a happy little sound of recognition. “Oh! I know this place.”

Spike arched a brow. “Thought you said you’d never been to the city.”

“I haven’t. But it’s in  _When Harry Met Sally_.” Buffy shrugged, her expression softening with some familiar sadness. “My mom loved that movie.”

He frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It doesn’t come out until the late 80’s.”

Well, that explained it. He hesitated. “Good film?”

“Iconic.” A sly smile spread across Buffy’s lips. “The female lead fakes an orgasm in the middle of a deli to prove that guys can’t tell the difference.”

Spike halted mid-step, nearly bowling into a gaggle of university-age girls. He glared at them and they scattered. “That’s complete bollocks. There’s a load of difference.”

“Spike, most guys can’t track heart rate, or whatever the hell it is that you do.”

“Heart rate?” He reared back indignantly. “For fuck’s sake, Slayer, I could tell if you were orgasming or not with my ears stuffed and my eyes closed. It has nothing to do with your sodding  _heart rate_.” He stepped toward her at the ledge of the fountain steps, pinning her with his gaze, listening to her pulse drum up and her breath hitch. “The noise doesn’t mean a damn thing when your body’s all quivering, luv.” He leaned closer and Buffy’s lips parted, hot breath brushing against his skin. Her arousal bloomed heavy in the air. “It doesn’t mean a damn thing when your cunt is squeezing the life out of my cock or my fingers or my tongue.” He ran a finger down the front of her blouse, watching avidly as her nipples hardened beneath it. “And it doesn’t mean a damn thing against the salt of your creamy white come.”

Buffy’s voice was a soft, needy gasp that went straight to his prick. “Spike.”

Right then. Sod the sightseeing. He tugged at Buffy’s elbow and pulled her away from the fountain, back through the marble arch and toward the sparse haunt of trees that encircled the park. There was a couple having some kind of paltry midnight picnic underneath a sizable maple, but they fled at a flash of fang.

Buffy gave him a hard look. “Really?”

He grinned and pushed her chest-first against the tree, pressing his dick into the curve of her arse as he kept her pinned. Buffy drew in a sharp breath and braced her forearms against the bark. It was better this way—with the curtain of her hair between them, where it could swallow all the words he didn’t want to say.

“Can’t tell the difference,” he growled derisively instead. He hitched up Buffy’s little flowered skirt, keeping her body shadowed by his open duster as he slid his hand around to the front of her panties and dipped below, questing through her nest of curls for her little bud. “Tossers don’t care, is what it is.”

Buffy shuddered as his pointer finger swept over her clit, her body tensing and arching, the flow of her hair brushing against his cheek. “Riley couldn’t tell,” was her low, embarrassed murmur.

“The former who ran out on you?” At her nod, he snorted. “Big surprise. Useless git.”

“He wasn’t useless,” Buffy protested.

Spike shrugged, sending his free hand down to undo his belt as his already occupied one teased her with light swirling caresses. “Sounds useless to me. Not attending to you, running off… I’ve got my flaws, pet, but not taking care of my girl isn’t one of them.”

Buffy’s breath caught, and he realized belatedly how that sounded. Bloody hell.

“Didn’t mean you,” he added, a growl against her ear, even as he encouraged her thighs apart and freed his aching cock from his trousers. “Stand on my boots, luv.”

Buffy complied without complaint, and Spike groaned as he shoved aside her panties and slid his cock into her wet cunt, her walls tight and embracing. Christ, he was never going to get used to the heat.

Buffy mewled as he pulled nearly all the way out before slamming into her again. Her fingers left trenches in the tree bark. “I punched you,” she panted.

He grunted as he shifted his hips. “Which time?”

“No, I mean…” She trailed off momentarily, breathless, as his fingers worked her clit. “The other you. The last time you called me your girl—I beat you.”

He pounded into her ruthlessly, crushing her chest between his own and the tree. “Wasn’t calling you it now,” he snarled, brushing her hair away from her neck near his barely clotted marks and lowering his mouth to suck on them.

Buffy whimpered against him, her back arching and her gaze spanning up into the boughs of the tree. “Just pointing out the”—Spike rolled his hips, pinching her clit—“ungh—idiotic irony of it, now that I actually want you to.”

“It’s a bloody ironic world,” Spike muttered, tonguing his marks.

Buffy’s thighs trembled in earnest and she came with a small cry, her pussy mercilessly clenching his dick. He groaned and pounded into her faster; blood scented the air as the tender skin of her forearms scratched against the bark. His demon broke through and his senses—already deluged with Buffy—sank underneath the slight uptick in perception.

He came with a gasp, biting his own lip to keep any stray words of affection from escaping. They stood slumped against the tree, both breathing hard. After a minute, Spike lifted Buffy from his boots and stepped back. He winced as his still-hard cock slipped from her (there was no hope for the thing to soften with Buffy’s blood in his veins), and resettled her skirt.

She turned, her green eyes dark and her cheeks flushed. “That is the second time we’ve done that against a tree.”

Spike let his human guise slip back with a smirk. “Yeah? Well, a spot of wood on the regular’s good for the body.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, straightening her clothes and glancing around self-consciously. “Do I look okay?”

“Minus the wear and tear already there, you mean?” When Buffy grimaced, he chuckled. “You look—” He luckily stopped the word  _gorgeous_  before it left his mouth. But Christ, she was, with her hair all tousled, and his mark visible, and the scent of their fucking and his come and her come swirling in the air. “You look fine, Slayer,” he finished.

Clenching his jaw, he turned and strode toward back the center of the park, not giving her time to reply.

 

***

 

Spike’s mood had been less stable than a shifting grave tonight, and Buffy barely repressed a sigh when he went from distant and irritated to eager and boyish in the span of a breath.

“Brilliant, they’ve got a fire breather tonight.”

Buffy followed his gaze to where a plume of flames burst above the heads of a small crowd. “A vampire who likes fire. God, you are really weird.”

Spike smirked. “I prefer ‘adventurous and daring.’”

“Of course you do.”

Buffy surveyed the park; the space was well lit and clustered with gaggles of tourists and performers circling a massive fountain sunk into the center. A miasma of weed drifted through the air with muddled, overlapping strains of music—low African drums, a wailing saxophone, several guitars, and a full band or two. There was a juggler off to the left and what looked to be a mafia-level serious kind of chess game just across the way.

Spike was bouncing on the balls of his feet, impatiently letting her look around. For all that he claimed to not care about people, he sure enjoyed being around them. Her vampire, the social butterfly. It struck Buffy then how much the Initiative chip must’ve really taken from him in her time: he’d been cast out by the demon world and lost his confidence interacting with the human one. His world had grown so small around her.

But now she was in his.

“Fine, let’s go see the fire breather. Then I want you to help me make that living statue guy across from him break character.”

Spike grinned evilly. “Easily done, pet.”

“No flashing your fangs.”

Spike huffed. “You’re a killjoy.”

She arched a challenging brow. “C’mon, Big Bad. Work that creative bone you have somewhere in your body.”

Spike leered at her. “Already did.”

“No flashing that, either.”

Spike’s blue eyes were dark and mirthful. “Wouldn’t. I’m hard as hell still—wouldn’t want the bloke getting the wrong idea.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Because that’s the major concern there.”

“It’s certainly not a bloody minor one,” Spike purred, slipping his hands down to frame the bulge in his jeans.

“Like I’m not aware.”

Spike stepped toward her, his eyes gaining a predatory gleam. “You’re covered in me, luv,” came his low, insinuative rumble.

Buffy licked her lips, her sticky thighs shifting. “And again with the aware.”

Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth. “After this, I’m going to lick you clean,” he murmured, looking up at her from beneath hooded lids, “then enjoy getting you all messed and dirty again.”

Buffy managed to force some kind of annoyance into her expression, not that it likely did any good—her entire body was trembling with desire. “Maybe I'd rather go back to the factory and shower."

“Maybe, but you won't. You're going to come back to my flat and get shagged senseless."

Buffy lifted a brow. "You're assuming a lot."

Spike grinned. "I’m a bad, rude man, luv." His gaze flicked toward the flame-watching crowd. “But fire breather and statue first, yeah?”

Then he was off again without waiting for an answer, a platinum punk figure in a sea of denim and corduroy, his duster snapping behind him.


	22. Banner-making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to yellowb for her fabulous alpha/beta-ing, and ensuring that statue insults saw the light of day; and to Liverdoc for her brilliance and creativity as she made sure said insults were up to snuff.

There was fire in Spike’s eyes. It made Buffy uneasy, even though it wasn’t the same as the fire from the hellmouth—this one was miniscule by comparison, spurts of tidal heat quickly snuffed out by the night air. But then, this wasn’t the same Spike, either—this one was harder, sharper; silhouetted with unsouled swagger and piercings. But the wonder in his eyes was almost the same, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the firebreather in front of them.

The crowd around the performer—some mid-thirties guy with dreads and cut-off shorts—was nearly three deep. Still, she and Spike had front row positioning after people magically moved out of the vampire’s way. Buffy had watched that kind of phenomenon for years; everyone reacted subconsciously to a predator on the scene, no matter how deep in sheep’s clothing the danger was.

“Bloke’s using cornstarch,” Spike muttered, his eyes riveted on a large gust of fire as it flared and died with a roar of breath and torch.

“Huh?”

“To make the flames,” Spike clarified, his gaze still glued on the act.

Buffy watched a fine spray of white powder jet out from the performer’s lips as he blew out another roaring plume of fire. “Is that a good thing?”

“Makes some of the biggest flames, but breathe in too much and your fragile human lungs go kaput.”

“Geez. Why’s he not using something else then?”

Spike shrugged. “Grain alcohol’s cheap enough, but he’d be drunk as a skunk and likely end up on fire by the end of the night. And a busker’s not likely to have the dosh to spring for camp fuel or gasoline. Not to mention, both are god-awful to hold in your mouth.”

Buffy’s face scrunched up incredulously. “Remind me to add this to the top five conversations I never expected to have with you. How do you even know this?”

Spike finally turned to her, looking amused and slightly condescending. “I like something, I learn about it.”

Epiphany hit her like a freight train. “Like killing Slayers.”

Spike’s brows rose. “Well, yeah.” He glanced back at the firebreather. “C’mon, pet, let’s have a crack at the statue bloke.”

Buffy followed him toward the living statue across the way. The performer was made-up like a bronzed Charlie Chaplin, complete with toothbrush moustache, too-large bowler, and a slim cane. He had just startled a cluster of old ladies by lifting up his hat (garnering several sizeable tips amidst the subsequent twittering) and was now again carefully inert on his short platform.

“Lemme guess,” Buffy said as Spike narrowly eyed the man, “you’re going to try and make him laugh?”

Spike looked offended. “What? No. Christ, I’m not trying out for his best mate.” He smirked. “Going to brass him off. The angry bloke is the one who slips up.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “That explains so much of our relationship.”

Spike just grinned and circled the statue like a wolf, releasing a volley of blistering insults:

“This is pathetic, mate. I’ve met Chihuahuas with more talent than you. I bet you couldn’t even wank off a pig if it wrote you directions.”

Spike sniffed theatrically near the statue’s clothing. “Been on the piss lately, haven’t you, gobshite? You smell like the downwind of a fairground privy.”

“And speaking of, I’m betting your cunt’s as rusted up as the rest of your scrawny arse. You’re missing out on the WD40 when you take that steel rod up it on the daily.”

The statue twitched and Spike’s grin turned deathly predatory as he went in for the kill. “Rods aside, I imagine it’s mostly buggery for you, since you’ve got a face that looks like a bulldog chewed on a nettle. One might wonder what the fuck your mum was on when she didn’t drown you from the first.”

This time, the statue made one smooth motion forward, his free hand jutting out to give Spike the bird before sliding smoothly back into place.

Buffy burst into laughter.

Spike stared at the performer in surprise, then joined in the laughter, his voice light with a kind of carefree mirth she’d never heard before.

“A bloke after my own heart,” Spike chuckled as he pulled himself together. He bowed to the performer, his duster flaring out like a knightly cloak, and threw a twenty-dollar bill into the collection box at the man’s feet. “You’re a dab hand at not letting the bastards grind you down, mate. Cheers.”

The statue bowed in return, his lips curving up just slightly.

 

***

 

Spike wasn’t at his apartment after sunset the following day. Buffy stood for a moment in the bedroom doorway before perching uneasily on the edge of the bed. She ran a hand over the mussed sheet that Spike had dug out from the linen closet, which he hadn’t bothered to straighten after making good on his promise to clean and redirty her to his satisfaction before dawn. She frowned down at the cotton threads. Despite Spike’s physical enthusiasm, he’d been strangely non-talkative in bed after their… whatever last night counted as, with the weird mix of sparring, and park-going, and Spike buying her a hot dog from a street vendor afterward because apparently her stomach was growling loudly enough to set off the feeding-obsessed vampire.

Her hand stilled on the sheet.  _Oh god._  It was a date. Last night had been a date. Had Spike realized that, too? Had it scared him away for good? He’d already seemed freaked enough by the glimpses of her past and his now-defunct future. Maybe this had tipped him over the edge.

Buffy pulled her legs up onto the bed and wrapped her arms around them, resting her head on her knees as dread sat heavy in her stomach.  _Don’t run, Spike. Please._

It was after midnight by the time the apartment door swung open, and Buffy jerked awake from a fitful doze to find Spike watching her from the bedroom doorway, brow raised.

“Waiting for me, were you?”

Buffy swallowed and shifted her legs down, wincing as her stiffened muscles protested. “I wasn’t sure…” Her voice trailed off. He looked flush.  _Warm_. All the relief flooding through her plummeted into tired resignation. “You were hunting.”

Spike’s mouth flattened, his eyes turning dangerous. “Yeah. I was. Hadn’t had a good bite since that chit in the alley.”

She clenched her fists by her sides. “Who’d you kill?”

Spike cocked his head at her. “What, you want details?”

“I need to know.”

“I bet you do, Slayer. You can’t wait to carry it on your head like a nice little martyr.”

Buffy glared at him and sat up straighter, the mantle of her duty and failure steeling her spine and setting her expression Slayer hard. “Just tell me.”

Spike’s nostrils flared and he looked away from her before biting out, “Sorry to disappoint. There’s nothing to tell.”

“So you didn’t eat somebody earlier?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

Buffy frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Spike wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Got a bite, left the chit breathing. It’s not that bloody hard to understand.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open. “You didn’t kill? But…  _why_?”

Spike turned away from her completely, one hand bruising the doorframe, and didn’t answer.

Finally, she ventured another, softer, “Why, Spike?”

His fingers dug farther into the wood, his shoulders tensing and bunching the leather of his duster. “Didn’t feel like hurting you just then,” was his tight reply.

Buffy stared at him for a moment before it hit her—what she’d said to him in the CB’s alley.  _You could’ve tried to finish killing her even after you knew I was here. It would’ve hurt me._

“Oh.” Gratitude and hope warred in her chest. “Thank you.”

Spike whirled back to face her, glaring. “Don’t get used to it, Slayer. It’s not likely to happen again.”

“Once is more than I expected,” she whispered. When Spike didn’t reply, Buffy rose from the bed and awkwardly casted around for a new subject—anything to bleed the tension from the room. “So, um, do you roller skate, by chance?”

Spike’s defensive glare faded into utter bafflement. “What?”

“My roommates are apparently hosting their annual roller skating party thing tomorrow night. They’ve turned the third floor of the factory into a gigantic rink and party space, and I have full permission to invite whoever I want.” She shrugged helplessly, giving him a crooked smile. “You’re sort of the only person I know in 1977.”

Spike gaped at her. “You are entirely off your bird if you think I’m going to a sodding  _roller skating_  party.”

She shrugged again. “Figured I’d ask.”

“Right.”

Spike was still looking at her like she was crazy. Humiliation rose; Buffy suddenly, desperately needed a slay. Maybe three. She clutched the stake in her waistband. “Mkay, then. I’m going to head out for patrol.” She hesitated as Spike silently stood aside to let her pass, looking not at all sorry to see her go. “I guess I’ll… see you later?”

Spike nodded shortly, already turning away from her.

Buffy fled the apartment.

“Good job, Buffy,” she mumbled as she strode down the sidewalk. “Spike does something huge like not kill someone and you invite him to a skating party and then run away.”

That was always her downfall with Spike. The sex she could do, and do it well. But the dating… well, they’d never been that kind of couple. They’d hardly been a couple at all; the majority of their ‘together’ time had been spent demon hunting in cemeteries—a suggestion that was sure to elicit only ridicule from this Spike.

The welcome distraction of vampire tinglies broke Buffy from her thoughts and she eagerly drew the stake from her waistband _._

“I was just looking for a good slayage candidate,” she called into the dark street, bracing for attack.

Her breath caught as Drusilla glided from the shadows, looking almost childlike in her usual Victorian nightgown-esque fare.

Great. This night was just getting better and better.

“Sunshine talks to shadows,” the vampiress purred, “but the shadows don’t listen to nasty girls like you. Chase them out, round and round you go,” she said, twirling her fingers in a wide circle.

“Drusilla. I see you’re just as insane as ever in 1977,” Buffy said tightly, fixing her gaze on Drusilla’s lips, carefully away from her dark eyes.

“Bad Sunshine, you don’t belong here,” Drusilla hissed, taking an angry step forward. “You slash and burn and take! My knight does not belong to you.”

Buffy’s grip on her stake tightened. “Yeah, well, you threw him away in my time, and screwed my ex-boyfriend a lot, not to mention shocked me with a cattle prod and tried to kill me, so forgive me if I’m not feeling especially sorry for you.” When Drusilla took another step, she added, “And my future’s already screwed, so don’t think I won’t drive this stake right through your psychotic heart.”

Drusilla halted. Thankfully, she was crazy, not stupid. “My William is blinded by you,” she said sadly.

Buffy sighed. “Dru, I’m not making Spike do anything he doesn’t want to do.” Guilt inched in and she added more kindly, “It wasn’t my intent to come and mess… mess you guys up. But now that I’m here… I want him too much.”

“My darkling boy is not yours,” Drusilla repeated angrily. “Not yours to take and turn black feathers to white.”

“If Spike wants you,” Buffy said, her throat tightening, “then he’ll go back to you like he says he’s going to.”

God, her life was bizarre. Of all the people she thought she might end up having a heart-to-heart with in the course of whenever, Drusilla hadn’t been anywhere on the list. But here Buffy was, less than ten feet from Miss Bunches of Crazy, having a semi-coherent conversation about feelings.

There was a pause, then a shift in Drusilla’s demeanor. “Come back,” she murmured, her face turning skyward as her hands clapped together. “Oh yes, the bright and burning star. It always points true—home it leads, where the monsters gobble you up.” She turned back to Buffy, inexplicably smug. “Can’t turn a raven into a writing desk.”

“Well, thank god I’ve never tried,” Buffy said perkily.

Drusilla just giggled and began humming some unknown tune as she turned away, their conversation apparently at an end. “You shall not keep him for tea and crumpets, Sunshine.”

Buffy stared warily after her, reining in the temptation to throw her stake between the vampiress’s shoulder blades. No matter how much safer things would be with Drusilla gone, Spike would never forgive her. “Dru, what are you going to do?”

Drusilla turned back briefly, looking frightening sane. “My knight must mind his banners,” she said simply, before skipping away into the dark.

Buffy’s shoulders slumped. “Well, that clears things up nicely.”


	23. Let History Repeat Itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from the Bee Gees song "More Than a Woman", which was featured in the hit disco movie Saturday Night Live, released in April of '77. In related news, roller disco was huge in the 70's. (This just might be relevant information.)
> 
> Yellowb deserves mad props for putting the idea of a roller skating party in my head, and also for her as always fab alpha/betaing

Spike had meant to ignore Buffy for a few days after she’d pried into his most recent hunt, and maybe tear open a few throats—just to prove his not killing that once didn’t mean a damn thing—yet here he was less than twenty-four hours later, sauntering into the third floor of her factory hideout as the bloody Bee Gees blared through scattered speakers. There had to be a hundred people in the place, half of them skating on the large, cordoned off portion of the cement floor serving as a rink, and half of them gathered around the keg in the corner. Some buxom bird bumped elbows with him as he looked around, batting her tarty little eyelashes as she scanned him over.

“Nice coat, handsome.”

The slag was just asking to get bitten. He snorted and shoved past her. “Sod off.”

She made an offended noise from behind him. “Hey! Fuck you.”

He turned back to her with an evil smirk. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole, sweetheart. Can smell the syphilis from here.”

Her face turned outraged. “Go die.”

His smirk widened. “Too late for that, ducks.”

He swept off, leaving the bitch irate and confused behind him. Maybe this party would be a bit of alright, after all. Not that he really gave a damn one way or the other. Where the hell was Buffy? His warning sense of her was entirely fucked by the mob of people and his traditional senses were faring hardly better. He pushed his way through the crowd with rising irritation. If she hadn’t come, and he was here for nothing, he was going to–

A blonde blur to his right had him slack-jawed. Bloody hell. The ridiculous chit was on roller skates, scantily clad in a tank top and shorts, and doing a gloriously fierce circuit around the rink as she laughed. Spike’s eyes narrowed as he strode closer. She was laughing at something the bloke floundering near her had said, which meant the mousy-looking ponce was going to die in the next minute or so.

“Hey, easy tiger,” came a familiar voice from beside him. His gaze snapped over, finding Buffy’s roommate bird nearly at his elbow, smirking at him with a raised brow. “Dude, I think you were actually growling. Color me impressed.”

Spike jutted his chin toward Buffy’s soon-to-be-dead companion. “You know that tosser?”

The bird snorted. “Uh, yeah. Intimately.”

So, he was that kind of wanker, was he? Spike’s gaze darkened, his nostrils flaring as Buffy touched the dead man’s arm. He ground his teeth together to keep his demon face from emerging. “Right.”

The bird gave a tinkling laugh. “Damn, if looks could kill.” She elbowed him in a friendly fashion. “Simmer down. That’s my boyfriend—Steve. Buffy’s been teaching his hopeless ass how to skate.” The woman whistled lowly. “She’s crazy good, even on my crappy old skates. I told her she should join the neighborhood derby team.”

Spike carefully unclenched his fists, relief rolling through him. “Yeah, she’s hell on wheels, looks like,” he said slowly, unable to keep the pride from his voice as Buffy executed a tight spin just for the apparent fun of it.

“I’m Val, by the way. Not sure we’ve been officially introduced and all that.”

Spike tore his gaze away from Buffy, blinking. “Oh. Right. Name’s Spike.”

Val’s lips twitched. “Spike? What is it with you punks and naming yourselves after verbs or inanimate objects? And you could be both.”

Spike’s retort died on his lips when he turned back to the rink and found Buffy had caught sight of him. Her entire face brightened and a dazzling smile widened her mouth as she skated his way, ducking under the dividing rope between rink and pedestrian way.

“You came,” Buffy said as she skidded to a stop, her voice alight with delight and surprise. She caught his cheek in a quick, sweet kiss that unarmed him entirely, his nostrils filling with her scent. She was sweating slightly, and the mix of it with her flushed heat went straight to his dick. Combined with the amount of skin she was showing, it was about all he could do not to immediately drag her off to the side and shag her blind, roller skates and all.

“Figured I’d at least see what the fuss was about,” he managed, wrapping a loose arm around her waist. His hand curled possessively against her hip, thumbing the line of her knickers through her thin shorts. “Have a laugh at some wankers on wheels.”

“You know,” Val said thoughtfully, “Julian might have an extra pair of skates that could fit you.”

“There’s no way in hell you’re getting me on roller skates,” Spike growled.

Buffy giggled, the sound vibrating pleasantly against his side. “It would ruin his big bad image, Val.”

“If you say so,” Val said, clearly amused. She nodded toward her boyfriend, who was waving at her but not attempting to come closer. “Better go save my boy-toy from his attempt to impress me. See ya, lovebirds.” And with a wink, she was away.

Spike scowled after her. “Cheeky bint, your roomie.”

Buffy’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah, and you  _hate_  those.”

Spike pursed his lips, his gaze flitting down to the off-white, softened leather skates on her feet—a study in contrast against his scuffed black boots. “Skating a previous hobby of yours? Some defender on wheels bit from California 2003?”

Buffy laughed and shrugged, though there was a kind of strain in the corners of her eyes. “I ice skated a lot before I was Called. After… not so much.”

“Still got the moves, it seems.”

“Apparently it’s one of those things that you retain, like riding a bicycle.” Her nose scrunched up. “Or so I’m told. I haven’t been on a bike since I was twelve.”

Spike shrugged. “Couldn’t say, myself. Dru and I used to bike around Paris in the 20’s, but haven’t tried my hand since.”

Buffy snorted a laugh. “Now that’s a weird mental image: you and Drusilla  _biking_.” Her expression sobered. “Speaking of… Drusilla found me last night.”

Ice dropped through Spike’s stomach, and creeping dread spilled in. He’d have felt if something happened to his sire… right? He pulled his arm away from around Buffy's waist, fists clenching as he twisted to face her fully. His voice came out strangled. “She’s not…?”

“She’s fine.”

His panic eased, and he exhaled slowly. “Right.”

A line drew down Buffy’s brow as she rested her hands on her hips. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I’d kill you for it,” he said flatly, guilt chewing at him. He’d been spending all this time with Buffy and leaving Dru at risk. Sure, he’d left the minions with orders, but Dru could dust them all if it suited her fancy and wander off. If something happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. If he was going to stay away any longer, he’d have to make better arrangements for her—someone to take proper care of her in his absence.

Buffy sighed, rubbing her temples. “Not shockingly, she’s still angry you’re with me. Something about minding your banners?” Her hands dropped down to her sides as her mouth curved into a vulnerable, shaky line. “I told her that I want you too badly to let you go without a fight.”

Spike’s chest lurched with the now-familiar Buffy pangs, and something broke. Buffy was only mortal, most likely. He could find Dru a long-term caretaker, if push came to shove, and free himself to stay with Buffy until she died. Wouldn’t likely take much to convince Buffy to stick around in this time. And while fyarls would sprout wings before he’d don a white hat, maybe he’d tone down the evil a bit for a few decades, just until she was gone—

Spike froze, all the mad, traitorous thoughts screeching to a halt. What the fuck was he thinking?

_God, no._

He couldn’t.

He bloody well  _wouldn’t_.

Cold certainty swamped him as he realized his time with Buffy was at an end. It was all fun and games until he bloody well went and started falling in love.

“Spike?”

He met Buffy’s gaze unwillingly, nearly flinching at the worry in her eyes. He had to stop this now. Before he couldn’t at all. Before he lost Dru and his life as he knew it for good.

“Thing is,” he forced out bitingly, schooling his expression into a hard mask and trying to ignore the sickening knot twisting in his chest, “Dru has the right of things. Went a bit lax on my standard-bearing for a minute, but that’s done now.”

“Huh?” Confusion clouded Buffy’s face. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged carelessly, balancing back on his heels with every ounce of false bravado Angelus’s tutelage had instilled. “You gave it the ol’ college try, sweetheart, but I’m sorry to say you’ve lost the war.”

Buffy paled as comprehension began to sink in. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“I’m tired of your loose cunt,” he said scathingly, hoping she didn’t catch the tremble in his voice. If he wasn’t damned before, he sure as fuck would be now—no better than her useless waste of a former. He could barely find his voice around the self-loathing choking his throat. Still, he pushed on.  _Needs must when the devil drives_. “Thought I’d come and get my dick wet one last time, but it’s frankly not worth the trouble. Maybe try your hand at one of the stupid blighters here—get them pissed enough and they won’t realize you’re not worth another go.”

He barely got out the last words before he had a fist in his face. His head snapped back with enough force to have broken a normal man. And Christ, she’d managed that even on roller skates. He slowly righted himself; Buffy was glaring at him, tears glistening in her eyes, her entire body vibrating with rage and hurt.

“ _Get. Out_.” She turned away and, stumbling slightly, ducked back under the dividing rope.

The sound of her choked-back sobs as she disappeared into the crowd damned him twice over.

Ignoring the ogling partygoers, he wiped away the blood dripping from his nose and fled the factory. It was time to go back where he belonged.

 

***

 

Buffy barely made it out of her skates and upstairs before she collapsed. Val found her curled up in a ball, sobbing on the futon, an hour later.

“Hey, girl. Andrea said you decked some dude downstairs.” When Buffy just cried harder, Val muttered, “Shit,” then walked away, coming back with a box of tissues. “You need anything, you let me know.”

What Buffy needed was to know what the hell had happened. Spike had gone from flirty and affectionate to complete bastard in the space of a minute after she’d mentioned her run-in with Drusilla. Had the newest reminder of Buffy's Slayer-ness just been too much? He’d looked terrified for his sire’s life at her hands, and then so relieved it hurt. Despite everything, Drusilla was still the one who held his heart.

“Why wasn’t I enough this time around,” she whispered, chin pressed against her knees. “I tried so hard, you idiot.” Another sob welled in her throat. “I tried so hard.”

When the tears ran out, Buffy was just numb. She lay limp, star-fished on her futon and staring at the tall ceiling. It was over; she’d risked everything and lost the bet. Spike didn’t want her. There was now less than zero reason for her to stay in 1977.

She rolled onto her side and dug around in her purse sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling out the scrap of paper from Syl’s. It was time to go back to her own time—she could lick her wounds there and try to forget that this blast to the past ever happened. If she was lucky, there wouldn’t be a need—her memory would be changed and she’d never know about any of this; and if she wasn’t… Lloyd was going to enjoy a very slow and painful death.

 

***

 

He meant to go back to Dru. Truly, he did. But Spike found himself in his temporary flat instead, breathing in Buffy’s lingering scent like a starving man. Her look of betrayed devastation wouldn’t leave him—it was branded into the backs of his eyes. He’d meant to hurt her, but god how he hated that he had.

He roared against the sheets and let them swallow the sound, his claws raking furrows in the mattress as he lost himself in the memory of her—her touch, her laughter, her moaning gasps as he fucked her.

Sunrise broached the horizon; his resolve died—along with whatever kind of demon he’d thought he was for the last century. Somewhere in the last weeks, Dru had stopped being the center of his universe and there was no use denying it any longer.

He slipped on his duster, grimacing at the light filtering through the blinds.

“Sod it.”

He had a Slayer to find.

Spike darted out to the nearest sewer grate and shoved it aside, plummeting down into the dark just as he started to smolder. He landed on his hands and knees, but barely let himself settle before he dashed through the wet corridor, amber eyes cutting through the gloom. It was a bloody maze down below, but decades of demon inhabitants and other unsavory elements had scratched their own underground directions in the damp brick. When he entered the Central Park neighborhood, he found a sewer grate near his destination and quietly slid it aside before diving into the nearest set of shadows—under the awning of a small smoke shop.

To his exultant relief, Buffy was about twenty feet away, contemplating the storefront for Kent’s House for Unusual Goods. It was a dingy little brick affair, but still a service-able enough looking place, except for the taped-up sign on the door that had ' _Closed for vacation. Will reopen July 06. Thieves will regret trespassing'_  written on it in big black letters.

Buffy stiffened as she sensed his arrival, slowly turning on her heels to face him. Her face was pale and tired, her eyes flashing with anger. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, shoulders hunching as he kept his hands firmly in his pockets to stop them from reaching across the sunlight toward her. “Figured with the way we left things, this was where you’d go. Memorized the address before I gave you the paper.”

Buffy just looked angrier at that, perfect little wildcat that she was. “And again,” she bit out, striding to the edge of the shadowed awning, “ _what_  are you doing here? A) it’s daylight, and B) you made it really clear last night that there’s no reason for me to stay.” When only silence met her, she drew in a sharp breath and some of the violence in her eyes faded. “Right?”

Spike’s jaw clenched defiantly as he fought the urge to let all the visceral thoughts teeming inside him spill out—about how she hadn’t quite made the killing blow, but that she had him pinned on the ground, his heart an inch from being torn from his chest and in her hands. And how he wanted her to take it—how he'd break his own sternum now to help the process. “Bloody hell,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Just stay, alright?”

Buffy looked bitterly amused. “That’s pretty much my only option right now, with Mr. Magic Guy on vacation.”

Spike’s jaw clenched again. “No, I mean… stay with me.” He held her eyes earnestly. “Stay with me, luv.”

“Spike…” Buffy’s tone was exhausted and unforgiving, and he could feel the rejection lingering on the end of it.

He took a step toward her, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “Buffy… Look, pet, I know…” Christ, what could he say to make this better? He’d done a damn good job of bolloxing it up to begin with.

Buffy’s face hardened and his heart sank. “No, you don’t know.” She looked away from him. “I just… I can’t do this again,” she whispered, her voice sounding so defeated that it wrenched something deep inside him.

He regarded her helplessly. “Going to have to be a bit more specific on what ‘this’ is, Slayer.”

She motioned loosely between them. “Us this.” A shuddering breath made her whole body rattle. “I’ve played this game with you before.  _Years_  of it.”

“Game? What bloody game?”

“The one where you and I are dysfunctional idiots!” Buffy shook her head. “It was better when you came back last year… at least once you stopped being crazy, but...” She laughed humorlessly. “Who am I even kidding? We were a complete disaster to the very end. I finally tell you that I love you and then you go and  _die_  while telling me I don’t. We weren’t exactly pulling off a Cory and Topanga situation.”

Cory and Topanga? Who were those wankers? Oh Christ, it didn’t even matter—the meaning was clear. She’d given up on them.

Well, bugger that.

“What did you expect, that it should’ve all been roses?” he snapped, then continued forcefully, “Love’s a right bitch at its best, pet. And you and me, we’re opposite forces of nature. It’s a bloody miracle you and future me didn’t rip each other to shreds.”

Buffy’s mouth drew a crooked line. “But we did.”

“Like hell we did,” he snarled. “If we had, you wouldn’t still be standing, and you sure as fuck wouldn’t have come looking for me!”

Buffy regarded him wearily, throwing up her hands. “Fine, we were two completely non-shredded people. What does it matter?  _What do you want_?”

He swallowed convulsively. God, there was no going back from here. “You, Buffy,” he said hoarsely. “I want you.”


	24. And Yet It Moves

“You want me.” Buffy’s heart stuttered in her chest, her body trembling with memory.

_Tell me you want me._

_I always want you._

But that Spike was gone; would likely never exist again. This Spike… Buffy crossed her arms defensively around her waist and straightened. “You didn’t want me last night,” she said flatly.

“Of course I did,” Spike growled, blue eyes boring into hers. He took a step toward her, looking relieved when she didn’t back away—back into the light where he couldn’t follow. He reached out and brushed his thumb across the divot in her collarbone, soothing her like some wild animal that might startle. “Thought I had to chase you off,” he murmured.

Buffy leaned into his touch despite herself. Damn him. Touch had always been his best weapon. She forced herself to still. “Because of Drusilla.”

Spike barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No.” He paused and seemed to reconsider. “Well, yeah, but not for the reason you’re probably thinking.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got the picture.”

His thumb continued caressing her collarbone, drawing a shivering line across her skin. His head cocked as he studied her face under the shadowed awning. “You’re magnificent in daylight.”

Buffy jerked away from his touch. “Stop it.”

His eyes hardened and he reached forward, grabbing her shoulders and tugging her against him with a growl, his body cool and hard and dangerous. “Make me.”

Buffy squirmed as he banded his arms around her. A frisson of long-buried fear spiked through her, but it was gone in a moment—despite the challenge in his voice, he wasn’t holding her that strongly and she wasn’t injured. And they weren’t whatever they’d been at the time when things collapsed in her bathroom. They were… god, she had no idea. Tired tears threatened the edges of her eyes. If she were smart, she’d punch him and just go back to the factory, and deal with this entire mess later. Or never. Instead, she found herself angrily saying, “I wasn’t the one changing the subject because I didn’t want to talk about you running back to your girlfriend, you bastard.”

Spike’s grip tightened; the rings on his fingers dug into her shoulder blades. His head dipped to hers, lips caressing her ear. “I wasn’t changing the subject, Slayer. That picture you’ve got of things? Better look in the mirror, pet, because you  _are_  the fucking picture.”

Buffy reared back to gape at him. “You’re blaming  _me_  for last night?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Chrissake. No, you infuriating chit, I’m saying…” He faltered; his jaw clenched and he snapped, “I’m saying I was considering leaving Dru for you, alright? For good. Well, for until you start pushing up daisies, anyhow.”

“For…” Buffy’s voice caught in her throat.  _Oh._  The hands that had fisted against his chest, half-heartedly pushing him away, flattened. Her fingers gripped the lapels of his duster like a life raft. “And now?” she managed, hating how small and shaky her voice sounded.

Spike nuzzled her jaw, nipping at the skin as he migrated south, leaving small kisses like fire down the column of her neck. “And now,” he murmured, “it seems I’m done considering.”

Buffy didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she turned her head and caught Spike’s mouth in a bruising, desperate kiss as a keening moan escaped her throat. Spike growled low in his throat and returned the favor, invading her mouth with his lips, and tongue, and teeth—feral, possessive. Warmth slid up her spine and her lower belly throbbed, her exhausted mind swimming. When their lips finally broke apart, she managed a faint, “So, is this a point to me, then?”

Spike stared at her for a beat, then broke into rumbling laughter. “Several,” he agreed with a wry half-smile. The smile faded slightly, his gaze flickering gold. “You haven’t won just yet though, Slayer. I’ve no intention of becoming some poncy, white hat wearing ‘better man’. Might tone down the evil just to keep you happy, but that’s it. End of the line. Take it or leave it.”

 

***

 

Spike waited anxiously for Buffy’s reply. Her heart was pattering away in her chest, filling his ears with the living sound of her. She narrowed her eyes. “You really mean it? You’re leaving Drusilla?”

He quirked his pierced brow, amused resignation coloring his voice. “Luv, we both know I left Dru weeks ago. Just didn’t quite realize the permanence of it at the time.”

Only, he knew it now. Knew he’d likely been buggered since Buffy landed on his head in the underground. He’d sure as fuck been buggered since the Watcher’s flat, when he was engulfed in her cunt and her come and her unwanted proclamations of love.

He laid a hard kiss on her lips. “Tell me you love me, Slayer.”

Buffy’s mouth parted in a surprised ‘o’, and he immediately regretted opening his gob. He only had her because her first choice version was dust; she didn’t love the monster, he was just all there was now. Knowing that was bad enough—he didn't need to hear it said out loud. He opened his mouth to negate the demand, but Buffy placed her fingers over his lips before he could say a word and shook her head. Blistering pain seared through his chest, and he closed his eyes in a long blink, turning his face away.

“Spike.”

He swallowed and opened his eyes but kept his face carefully averted. “Don’t, alright? Shouldn’t have said it. Doesn’t change anything, but I shouldn’t have said it." He hesitated. “Likely deserve whatever you want to say after last night, though.”

Buffy’s deceptively powerful hand slid down to his jaw and forcibly turned him to look at her. Fuck. He braced himself for everything he didn’t want to see—pity, anger, scorn—and paused when all he found was a furrowed brow. “I…” Buffy's eyes widened, and her face paled. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Spike stopped breathing, hope burning through his veins. “Yeah?” His voice came out in a croak.

Buffy looked as shell-shocked as he felt, and he nearly broke when her expression turned stricken and guilty. “Oh god,” she said desperately. “It took me so long and so… so  _much_  to love you before. And now…”

And now he was reaping the rewards of his poncier half. Spike’s grip on her tightened. “I promise to make you happy,” he said lowly, fiercely. “I’m not good, but I can give you that.”

Some of Buffy’s panicked expression shifted to almost hysterical humor. “So what, you just wanna hang around and be my evil boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

Buffy was silent for a disturbingly long time. Finally, she pushed her way out of his arms and Spike reluctantly let her go, the sting of his pride keeping him from begging. He wasn’t that much of her dog. Yet.

“I can’t stop trying,” she whispered. “Not about that. I won’t trade away the good man you became in my time.”

Spike’s jaw clenched. “Right.”

“But it’s no different than before, right? If I keep trying? It’s still the same challenge.”

Something  _was_  different now, but it took him a moment to sort through what it was. “Different stakes now, luv,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to lose you when I don’t end up like you want.”

Buffy laid a hand on his cheek and he instinctively turned toward it, nuzzling her palm. “At this point,” she muttered, “I don’t think we could lose each other permanently if we tried. You’ve always been a bad penny and I… well, what does a demon trial and inadvertent time travel count as?”

Spike pulled her back into his arms and tongued the marks he’d made on her throat, smirking when she shuddered with pleasure. “Dunno. But it’s a lot.”

Buffy wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “So we’re agreed then?”

“On?”

“If this challenge thing has rounds, I just won the first one.”

“Christ, you’re stubborn.”

He felt Buffy’s smile against his cheek. “If you’re just figuring that out, you’re in serious trouble, Spikey.”

He snorted. “Pet, I’ve outlasted everything Angelus could throw at me and a century of everything else besides. If you think I can’t hold you in a stalemate for the next however many years, you’ve got a nasty surprise coming.”

Buffy tilted her head back to regard him squarely. “But you didn’t love Angelus.”

“Oh, I loved him just fine,” Spike muttered. And god, but he had. For as much as he’d hated his grandsire, he’d loved him just as much. Craved Angelus’s acceptance even as he’d rebelled against the elder vampire’s authority within an inch of his life. Sometimes less.

A small, victorious smile warmed Buffy’s face, and he realized what he’d inadvertently let slip.

Oh, hell.

“You sly little tramp.”

Buffy arched an imperious brow at him. “It wasn't a hard guess. Like you’d leave Drusilla otherwise."

“Never thought I’d leave Dru, period,” he said harshly. His mouth drew a crooked line. “And yet it moves.”

“Huh?”

He shrugged. “Galileo, yeah?”

Buffy’s nose scrunched up. “And again with the huh?”

He sighed. What did schools teach in her time? Of course, the present day wasn’t likely any better—by general account, New York schools were cesspools. “Just a bit of pithy retort from when the bloody Papists demanded Galileo recant that Earth moved around the sun."

Understanding warmed Buffy’s eyes. “Oh.” She sent a hand to trace his cheekbone, watching the motion avidly. “And yet it moves.” Her meandering fingers stilled and she licked her lips, her heart rate shifting up. “Tell me you love me,” she whispered, some kind of weight in her voice he didn’t understand.

He drew in a sharp breath, terror lancing through him. “No.”

Buffy looked stricken. “But you…”

Christ, he was already in this deep. Might as well go for drowning. “But I’m fucking terrified, Buffy,” he said tightly. “And I’m not about to give you more power over me.”

Buffy gave a small, trembling laugh. “You have as much power over me.”

He snorted. “Oh, yeah? Got a bridge to sell me, too?” He shook his head. “You’re the predator made to take down other predators, luv.”

“And you kill us,” Buffy retorted.

He shrugged. “Well, yeah, but it’s not what I’m  _made_  for. I like the challenge, pet, but let’s not kid ourselves that I’m the master of ceremonies for the sodding thing. At the end of it, if I’m still standing, I’m just a vampire who had a good bloody day.”

Buffy seemed to mull that over before glancing out into the sun beyond the awning. “There are other ways to have a good day.”

She turned back to him, desire written all over her face, and he bit back a groan, his cock hardening in his trousers. “Plenty,” he agreed huskily. Christ, they had to get away from here so he could shag her properly. He glanced toward the nearby sewer grate. “Fancy a shady walk?”


	25. Contrast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the amazing yellowb, who ensures my phrasing actually makes sense outside of my head; and to Liverdoc, whose list generating skills are unparalleled. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, all!

The sewers were almost pitch black as Buffy dropped the last foot from the ladder to the ground, screwing up her nose when she landed in some unidentifiable puddle. Spike chuckled from where he was already sheltering nearby in the dark, the disembodied rumble making her tingling Spike-sense go haywire.

“It’s mostly stormwater, luv.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, the rats have left their own contributions here and there.”

“Ugh.”

There was the sound of a striking match; Spike’s face appeared in sharp, shadowy relief as he lit the end of a cigarette. His blue eyes were bright behind the flame, his lips curling into a grin as he shook out the match and threw the world back into near-dark. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish over a bit of dung, Slayer.”

“Being squeamish and preferring that my footwear not be submerged in gross are two very different things.” Buffy looked down at her now mildly wet footwear. “And I just got these boots.” Finding 1977 awash with heeled leather boots had been one of the most pleasant discoveries from her out-of time-shopping experiences. All the corduroy, not so much.

Spike’s own boots sloshed closer—the cylindrical brick walls around them providing a sharp, heavy echo. A cool finger brushed down her bare arm. “You’ve a bit of girly girl in you.”

Buffy let out a surprised laugh. It was too easy to forget how little this version of Spike really knew her. “Trust me,” she said wryly, “it’s much less than it used to be.”

“Oh?”

“I once complained to Giles because I broke a nail while slaying.”

She could practically hear Spike’s eyebrow shoot up. “A nail.” His voice was heavy with amused disbelief. “All pink and innocence, weren’t you?”

“Heavy on the pink.”

Spike’s hand wandered up her arm and trailed across her shoulder before sliding slowly down her torso; Buffy’s breath hitched as he drew a curve around her breast. “A regular Doris Day.”

“Didn’t last.”

His hand continued its descent, brushing across her hip and over the zipper of her cotton slacks. His tongue curled lewdly around his burning cigarette as his other arm gripped her waist. “Good thing. There are more interesting endeavors.”

Buffy quivered as his hand slid in between her thighs, pressing at her clit through the thin fabric of her clothing. She pulled the cigarette from his lips and tossed it away. “You would know,” she said dryly. “You showed me half of them.”

“Only half? Future me was slacking.” Spike’s smoked-scented breath invaded her senses as he pulled her closer, grinding her against his erection. “Let’s see if I can’t close the gap.”

He had her pressed against the sewer wall before she could even reply, sinking to a crouch as he unzipped her pants, tugging them and her underwear to her knees.

Buffy gasped as his fingers spread her lower lips, pleasure arcing through her lower belly as his tongue delved hungrily inside her. “Can’t this wait—ungh—until we get to your apartment?”

“Can’t wait,” was the growled reply, vibrating against her clit and nearly buckling her knees. “Want you.” He plunged two fingers inside her—her barely spread, jeans-captured positioning making the digits feel almost intrusively large. “Need you.” His tongue lapped at her clit and she leaned back further into the brick with a keening gasp.

“Love you,” she whispered.

Spike drew in a sharp, snarling breath. “Yes.”

Her heart thundered in her chest as Spike tongued her clit and fucked her with his fingers, trembling and exhausted and so relieved she thought she might cry. This Spike loved her.

More terrifyingly, she loved  _him_. She loved the mostly evil, completely uninhibited, entirely badder version of him. She loved the demon.  _I want the Spike that’s dangerous._

God, what did that say about her?

Her orgasm crested with her thoughts, a desperate mewling escaping her lips as she shuddered against Spike’s mouth and pulsed around his fingers, her legs turning to jelly.

Spike caught her as she slid down the wall, rising up and pressing a wet, fervent kiss to her lips that tasted of her and him and smoke. “I could eat you all day,” he growled.

Buffy fumbled with his belt buckle as she pressed her lips back to his, nearly ripping his jeans zipper as buckle and button came undone beneath her assault. Spike’s cock jutted proudly into her hand and she stroked it the length of it with a touch of Slayer strength. Spike's head fell back as he groaned, eyes fluttering shut, exposing the pale line of his throat. She kissed his Adam’s apple and nibbled her way down his throat until her lips met the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“Christ,” Spike said hoarsely, his head snapping back up. “Need to be in you, Slayer.”

“Need you to be in me,” she agreed breathlessly. She rose unsteadily on her tiptoes, her legs still throttled by her jeans, and huffed in frustration. There was no way in hell she was stripping in the sewers, mostly stormwater or no.

“I’ve got you,” Spike said lowly, lifting her onto his boots as he’d done in Washington Square, this time facing him as he bent his knees slightly. “Spread as wide as you can.”

It wasn’t nearly as wide as she wanted. Biting her lip, Buffy wrapped her arms tightly around Spike’s neck as he maneuvered into her, their panted desperation echoing around them in the dark. His cock, like his fingers, felt larger in this position, almost too big as he thrust up into her, both of them moaning at the mingled pleasure-pain.

“Fuck, luv,” he groaned into her neck as he rolled his hips, setting a gentle, semi-irregular rhythm. His arms wrapped around her, fingers fisting in her hair. “You’re so tight.”

A twinge of leftover hurt rose to the surface, compounded by the memory of a gloating, ring-bearing Spike in bright sunlight—a stark contrast to their current near-dark. “Not loose? Am I worth another go, after all?”

Spike stilled against her, wincing. “I’m a right bastard, Buffy. Your cunt is brilliant, just like the rest of you.” His hips rolled pointedly, pushing his cock deeper into her. “You have the the wettest”—thrust—“hottest”—thrust—“most heavenly fucking vice of a pussy.” He panted against her, their foreheads pressed together. “And I worship it and you, you stunning angel of death.”

Buffy laughed unsteadily as her arms wrapped more tightly around his neck, pressing her chest against the cold metal of his safety-pinned shirt. Her entire body was warm and throbbing, on the edge of orgasm. “You can say all that but you won’t say you love me?”

Spike’s hips halted momentarily; he looked annoyed with himself. “Apparently.” He kissed her hard. “You make me lose my bloody mind, Slayer.”

“Souls, minds, random body parts… I’m an equal opportunity gal.”

Spike lifted a brow as his resumed his steady rhythm. “Which bloke lost body parts?”

“Future you,” Buffy gasped, trembling as the swarming pleasure in her belly rose higher—teetering on the edge of erupting. “Except it was really your—ah—whole body, so I guess not so much random as ‘total loss of’.”

Spike snorted a laugh. “Yeah.” He drew in a deep breath as he plunged in and out of her, his blue eyes intent on her face. “Gonna come for me again now, luv?”

“Make me,” she breathed.

Spike’s hands tightened in her hair as he shifted his hips, pressing against her inside bundle of nerves with every thrust. His mouth dipped to her ear with a dangerous, demanding whisper: “Come. For. Me.”

Her mouth parted into a whimper as she fell over the edge, clutching his neck and nodding desperately. Pleasure burst through her in a spasming, radiant wave, arcing through her belly and down to her toes.

“That’s right, Slayer. Come all over my cock,” Spike snarled, slamming harder into her. Her ribs creaked from the strength of his hold. “Fuck me. Take me. Strangle me–” His words cut off into a gasping groan, and he pumped into her one last frantic time as his cock jerked inside her.

They clutched one another through the aftershocks. Finally, Spike set her down on her feet, his softened cock sliding from her with a rush of their spendings. Buffy grimaced as she wiped away a glob running down her thigh.

“I’m constantly covered in bodily fluids around you.”

Spike grinned and caught her messy hand, drawing it toward his lips; his tongue flicked across her skin, curling as it cleaned her. “Small price to pay.”

Buffy’s heart hammered in her throat as her pussy pulsed again. Once upon a time, she’d thought that her insatiable desire for Spike and Spike’s body had been largely due to her driving need for distraction in physical release—and later, because she’d effectively become celibate, both before and after his death. 1977 was proving that hypothesis entirely false. Still, there was no way she was having sex in a sewer a second time. Probably.

Lightly tugging her hand away from Spike’s ministrations, Buffy pulled up her underwear and slacks, gesturing toward Spike’s waist. “Buckle up, Big Bad. No more of that until we’re out of the fun world of public sanitation.”

Spike smirked but obliged her as he re-zipped his jeans. “Right then. Let’s not dawdle.” There was a quiet grating of bone as he shifted into game face, and then Spike’s long fingers wrapped around her wrist, tugging her forward into the dark.

Buffy swallowed back her unease as Spike led her mostly blind self through the New York sewer system. Sunnydale’s underground highway had been unnaturally spacious for the size of the town above it—care of a certain demonic mayor, no doubt—but that had still been nothing like these massive, vaulted caverns. Not even Rome was reminiscent—where the sprawling waterways had been crumbling and ancient and dangerously haphazard. This was a city unto itself; a conclusion compounded when Spike halted unexpectedly a few minutes into their trek.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Slayer,” Spike said, sounding distracted. “Just trying to read the sign. Some useless tosser graffitied over it.”

Buffy blinked into the dark. “Sign? Graffiti?”

“Right,” was the only reply, followed by a sharp tug to her left. “This way.”

They stopped short as they turned a corner, a flicker of light from somewhere ahead illuminating the cavernous tunnel.

Spike stared toward the light, game face tight with irritation. “Sodding hell.”

“Looks like we have company.”

Spike nodded, head cocked as he listened intently for something. His mouth curled in disgust. “Band of frophlas.”

Buffy squinted, but couldn’t make out anything ahead, and the only noises she could gather were from them and the water around them. “What, like a music group?”

Spike snorted. “Slime demons, luv. They’re scavenger types.”

“Harmless?”

A growl rumbled through Spike’s chest. “Not to pulsers.” He dropped her wrist and straightened his duster before re-spiking up his mussed hair with his hands. Then he dug around in his pockets and pulled out the eyeliner pencil she’d found days ago, extending it to her as his face melted back to human. “Can you see well enough not to poke my eyes out?”

Buffy raised a brow. “You need eyeliner to face a band of slime demons?”

Spike shrugged. “Frophlas see mostly light contrast. It’ll help.”

Bafflement flooded through her. Help with what exactly? Then it hit. Spike was making himself the most obvious predator in the room—just like he’d always done. Even in her time, though the punk look had smoothed out into something slightly less extreme by the 90’s, the black leather and white hair had always screamed  _threatening individual_.

She took the extended pencil and uncapped it. “Thick lines?”

“Yeah.”

“Hold still.”

A brief quirk of Spike’s lips was his only answer before he turned deathly still, even his unneeded breathing halted. Spike was, Buffy realized in that moment, the only man she’d ever done makeup for. Her girl group at Hemery way back had done each other’s makeup all the time, and then it had been Buffy and Willow—and Dawn, when she was old enough—in Sunnydale. But makeup for a lover? That was a new one. Buffy drew a heavy, careful line around Spike’s left eye, his intent blue gaze never leaving her face.

“I wonder when you stopped wearing eyeliner in my time,” she murmured almost thoughtlessly as she finished his first eye. “It really does look incredible on you.”

Spike cocked his head, smirking. “Been thinking about me and my cosmetics, have you?”

“Hard to not. It’s striking.”

His smirk widened. “Dunno about the other me, but I’ll keep at it for good, if you like.”

“I might like,” she agreed with a slight smile. “Now stop being so smug. I need to do your other eye.”

He settled back into a neutral face and she slid her fingers around his right eye, leaving a dark line of kohl in her wake. Spike hadn’t been wrong; his blue eyes were almost stunningly bright against the new application of eyeliner. She imagined his amber ones would be just as vivid. She capped the pen after a minute’s review.

“Do I look alright?”

“You look dangerous.”

A feral gleam was in Spike's eyes as he tucked the pen back into his pocket. He fished out the two studded bracelets in its place and snapped them around his wrists. “Perfect.”

Buffy watched him re-straighten his coat with rising bemusement. It was a lot of ceremony compared to the instant war readiness she’d come to expect from Spike in Sunnydale.

“Oh,” she whispered. “I get it.”

Spike looked at her inquiringly, his gaze flicking back toward her from where he’d been staring at the light ahead. “Get what, luv?”

“Why you’d gotten rid of it all by my time—the piercings and eyeliner and safety pins...”

Spike arched his pierced brow. “Pray enlighten me.”

“You didn’t need them anymore.” And he hadn't. By the time she'd run across Spike originally, he'd been the Slayer of Slayers for twenty years—his infamy long since recorded in the Watchers' diaries. In 1977, Spike’s reputation was shiny and new, constantly in need of defense and reinforcement.

Spike seemed to consider that, eyes narrowing as he drew a hand down his chest. “Didn’t need my muscles either, then?”

“Extenuating circumstances.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Sometime, Slayer, you’re going to tell me what the fuck that means.”

“Maybe.”

Spike huffed and set off down the sewer, toward the light. “Stay behind me.”

Buffy nodded, cursing herself for leaving the factory without a stake. But daylight and exhaustion and frayed nerves had put the possibility of slayage on the backburner. She’d just wanted to get back to her own time.

And now… god, she had no idea what she was going to do—had no idea if she could even stay in 1977 without causing some gigantic timeline catastrophe. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Or rather, July 6, when Kent Rolands apparently returned from vacation.

For now… well, for now she was following a swaggering Spike through a sewer tunnel as he attempted to intimidate a band of slime demons.

There turned out to be five of them, vaguely humanoid—in the sense that they had faces and sort of stood upright—but mostly looked like giant, glowing slugs with knife-like teeth. They turned as one when Spike sauntered into view, his game face sliding forward with deliberate slowness.

“Morning, gents,” he said casually, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall. “Not to interrupt your jolly good time, but I’m needing to get through here.”

The frophla looked at each other. One—the leader, no doubt—turned red eyes on Spike as it slid toward them, its bulbous head coming up to the vampire’s shoulder. “Vampire,” it said scathingly, in a voice like sandpaper. “You may pass.” The gaze flicked to where Spike was nonchalantly shielding Buffy behind his back. “But leave the snack.”

Spike took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling directly into the other demon’s face. “No, don’t think I will,” he drawled. “The lady happens to belong to me.”

The leader gave a sharp-toothed grin. “Not anymore.”

Spike straightened, his vamped out mien turning hard as he flicked away his cigarette. “That wasn’t a question, mate. The bird belongs to me. Period.”

The frophla leader seemed unfazed. “She reeks of your seed, vampire. Be lucky we’re willing to stomach her at all.”

 _Oh, boy_. Well, there went that death warrant—signed, sealed, and delivered.

Spike darted forward and snapped the leader’s neck in one smooth, chilling motion. The demon jerked twice, then exploded into a puddle of slime. Spike wiped it away with a sneer as the other four frophla tittered, teeth clattering, but apparently unwilling to attack. “Anyone else want to insult my lady?”

The remaining frophla exchanged looks and then turned and darted away down the sewer, leaving long trails of slime in their wake. Spike glared after them until the glow of their bodies faded in the distance.

“Bloody berk,” he snarled, swiping slime from his duster.

Buffy stepped around the largest blobs of disintegrated demon, wrinkling her nose. “I hate the ones that explode into slime. Mom wouldn’t let me in the house once, it was so bad. She made me hose off in the yard.”

Spike stopped swiping at his coat, snorting in amusement. His eyes traveled to her chest region as a leer curled up his mouth. “Would have loved to have seen that.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you would.” She intended make a follow-up comment about Spike’s stereotypically male  _Girls Gone Wild_  appreciation when the glitter of something metal caught her eye from one of the piles of slime. Frowning, she hesitantly reached down through the cold goo, freezing as her fingers wrapped around the metal object. The very, very familiar metal object.

“Found something, Slayer?”

“I think so,” she whispered.

Spike shrugged. “Frophla’ll store all sorts of pilfered items in their slime.”

Buffy lifted her hand, unable to stop a shuddering inhalation as the item came into full view. It was a lighter.

 _Spike’s_  lighter.

Tears threatening, she carefully brushed her fingers over the metal, thumb catching on the familiar notch that marred the base. She’d rubbed that notch a thousand times while carrying the lighter around after Spike’s death. The damn thing had gone everywhere with her, including all the way to Africa. She’d intended to hand it back to him when she won the trials.

She looked up to find Spike watching her questioningly. “Here,” she said softly, pressing the lighter firmly into his palm. “This is yours.”

Spike’s head cocked, looking from the lighter to her. “Not that I don’t appreciate the gift, pet, but you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost.” His gaze shifted back down to the lighter, eyes narrowing. “Was this mine? In 2003?”

Buffy swallowed, her breath catching when Spike flicked the lighter open and shut as he’d done a million times before. “It’s yours right now.”

Spike snapped the lighter shut one last time and slipped it into his duster pocket, taking her now slimy hand in his own. “So it is."

Then he tugged them forward again in the dark.


	26. Comes with the Territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To yellowb, whose eye always makes this fic better. And to Liverdoc, whose uncle’s hair care products are now immortalized in smutty fan fiction. Aren't they lucky.

Spike had barely steered Buffy into his flat before she was stripping, her boots flying to the far corners of the living room.

“Not that I’m complaining, luv,” he said with amusement, his eyes roving down to her pretty little tits as they swished into view, shirt and bra tossed to the carpet, “but what's with the double time strip tease?"

Buffy paused in the midst of tugging off her trousers and fixed him with an imperious, green-eyed look. “In the shower. Now.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a bossy chit?”

“All the time.” She shrugged carelessly. “Comes with the territory.” There was an odd edge of bitterness in her voice.

His eyes narrowed, suspicion crawling up his spine. “Something happen in your time?”

Buffy nose scrunched. “Huh?”

“Know it wasn’t me if it did,” he started, then huffed in exasperation. “At least, can’t imagine it was, with future me being utterly love-whipped and white hatting and always on your sodding left side, according to you. No matter how much I bitched at you—and I’m sure it was fucking plenty—I doubt I meant much by it beyond being brassed off or trying to brass you off.”

Buffy looked completely baffled now. “Spike, what the hell are you talking about?”

He growled lowly. “I’m talking about whoever thought you weren’t the one who should be in charge back in your time.”

He knew he’d hit the nail on the head when Buffy’s mouth fell open. “How… how did you guess that?”

“I haven’t lived this long only because of my pretty face.”

A small smile quirked up Buffy’s lips even as she rolled her eyes. “It’s really annoying when you’re so perceptive.”

He shifted into his vampire mien with a dangerous chuckle. “Predator of the night, pet. Comes with the territory.”

“Touché.”

“Tell me what happened, Slayer.” Who the hell thought they should lead over the Chosen One? Had it been one of those thousands of jumpstart Slayers Buffy said had been around by the time she came here? People always got stupider in large numbers, and he doubted a legion of bloodthirsty Slayers was any exception to the rule. Sure, they were apparently Chosen, too, but Buffy would have been the eldest; the first in her time. The bleeding queen. Didn’t really matter if that future was defunct—someone had thought about overthrowing his Slayer and, if they existed in the here and now, he’d make sure they never got the opportunity again in any fucking future. His face shifted back to human. “Please.”

Buffy sighed and looked longingly in the direction of the bathroom. “Fine.” She finished stepping out of her trousers. “I’ll tell you in the shower,” she said archly and then darted away toward the bathroom.

That devious little chit. He laughed and shrugged out of his duster, folding it carefully over the old man’s armchair. Most of the slime had flaked off the leather once it dried; still, he’d have to find a good place to get his prize cleaned if he wanted it to last. And probably give his new lighter a scrub, too. He toed out of his boots and stripped off the rest of his clothes before sauntering down the hallway.

He found the bathroom door wide open as he approached. Buffy was fiddling with the shower knob, her arse wiggling up in the air. She made a set of small kittenish noises as she stuck her fingers under the tub faucet to gauge the water temperature, and his half-masted prick turned painfully rock hard. Christ. He’d never thought he could want another woman the way he’d wanted Dru—and yet here he was. Just a month in Buffy's clutches, and she'd made a complete mockery of a century of past desire. Bloody she-devil.

“Don’t you look ready for a proper fucking,” Spike growled at her, sliding his left hand around his cock and slowly jerking it up and down the shaft. Pleasure shot through his balls and down to his toes, relieving some of the ache.

Buffy looked over her shoulder back at him, her eyes widening as she watched him tug his foreskin back and give his cock another long, lazy pull. She pulled the lever to shift the water so it ran out of the showerhead and straightened, licking her lips. Her eyes flicked to his nipple rings and he grinned. He could give the Slayer a show if she wanted one—one the future version of him hadn’t obviously ever given her. Vicious pride filled him as his free hand circled his right nipple for a turn before tugging roughly at the bar. A jolt of pain arced down his belly and he groaned, jerking his cock a bit harder.

Buffy gave a little gasp and stepped toward him, her eyes on his reddening nipple and her growing arousal perfuming the air.

“Want to give it a go, luv? Give it a nice…”—his tongue curled behind his teeth—“yank?”

Buffy whimpered as she stepped backward and blindly climbed into the tub. “Get in here.”

He thought about refusing—teasing her with a bit more of a show—but her hungry gaze halted his words. He climbed into the tub after her and nearly fell on his arse when she leapt up and wrapped herself around him, her momentum shoving them both under the spray of the showerhead. Buffy’s warm lips assaulted his cool ones with nips and licks worthy of a vampire. Her hand not wrapped around his neck slid down to his nipple and slowly rotated the bar. Pleasure rushed straight to his dick.

Buffy grinned impishly as he groaned. “These are fun.”

“Glad you think so, pet.” He bounced her around his waist, watching as her perky tits waved. “Could get you your own set sometime.”

A snort met that suggestion. “Super impractical. Also, ouch.” She rubbed her right nipple in apparent sympathy with the thought.

“What, the piercing? It’s not that bad.”

Buffy gave him a disbelieving look. “If you say so.” She shrugged. “Didn’t just mean that, though. Getting punched in the boob with a piercing? Sounds like a terrible time.”

A low laugh rumbled through his chest. “No risk, no reward.”

Buffy lifted a brow, her face bright under the water as her golden locks slowly dampened to several shades darker. “Is this the reward?” Her hand wandered back to his piercing and gave it a sharp, painful yank.

He shuddered with pleasure. “ _Fuck_ , Slayer.”

Her lips slid to his ear, nipping the lobe. She caressed his abused nipple with a wet finger. “Is that a yes?”

“God, yes,” he growled, hitching her further up his waist and plunging his cock desperately inside her. He pushed her back against the shower wall for leverage, thrusting slow and hard into her cunt. She moaned and tilted her head back against the tile as his lips found her nipples and sucked them fervently.

“Squeeze them for me,” he whispered huskily as he released her tits and shifted his hips, sending a hand down to circle her needy little clit. Her free hand shakily wrapped around her right breast, squeezing it in time to his thrusts. “Now the other one.” She complied with a heavy pant.

The spray was hitting them from the side, soaking him with warm droplets in a shadow of the tight heat of Buffy’s pussy.  _Bathwater_ , he remembered. When he’d first shagged her, he’d thought it had to be like what sticking his dick in bathwater would feel like. Turned out not even a hot shower could compete. He thrust harder into her, letting Buffy capture his lips again as her panting grew louder and the button of her clit swelled under his fingers. Her hands tightened almost painfully around his neck as she gasped against his mouth.

“Spike. Oh god.”

“That’s right, luv. Come all around me,” he rumbled, fighting to keep his knees from buckling as her cunt clamped around him. His balls tightened in warning, his entire body vibrating with the need for release. His demon pushed forward, heady with want.

“Let me,” he rasped at her through his fangs.

She hesitated only a moment, her green eyes staring into his amber ones, and then nodded.

He snarled and sank deep into her neck, plunging into her carotid. Warm, heady fire flooded his mouth and scorched his throat, racing burningly through his veins as his orgasm burst violently from him. Turned out immolation was a fucking fantastic way to go—his future self had the right of that, after all.

Buffy keened as his fangs retreated, exchanged for a soothing tongue. She shook her head woozily, leaning heavily against him as she unwrapped her legs from his waist and stood, his still-hard cock bobbing between them. “Which mark,” she whispered, “was that one over?”

He grinned and paused in laving her neck as the blood flow slowed to a trickle. She was shivering in his arms, and he realized the water was running cold. He turned the handle farther until hot water came out again. “Guess.”

Her eyes narrowed in thought. “The Master?”

“In one.” He turned them so that her body was fully ensconced in the hot water.

Buffy threw him a grateful smile as she tilted her head back into the spray, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

“Good? Preferred me biting that one, too, did you?”

“Mhm. I was starting to feel like an Aurelian chew toy.”

“Well, I fixed that. Now you’re just this Aurelian’s chew toy, Slayer.”

Her eyes flashed open, brimming hard emerald. “Just for that, you’re in charge of shampooing my hair.”

Spike grinned and glanced around the tub. A quick survey revealed a bottle of Polytar on the wall ledge—creosote scent in a bloody bottle. Buffy’s hair deserved something more feminine, but it was better than nothing. Spike snatched it up and squirted some into his palms. “Turn around so your head’s out of the water, luv.” When Buffy shifted around, he massaged the shampoo into her scalp, swallowing roughly as she moaned. His Slayer blood-aided stiffy twitched. “You keep up that noise and you’re going to get shagged with soapy hair.”

Buffy gave a small laugh, frowning when his fingers paused in her tresses. “Don’t stop.”

“You going to tell me about what happened in your time?”

Buffy opened one eye, turning to glare at him. “Evil.”

He snorted. “I hardly think withholding your hair treatment qualifies.”

Buffy didn’t answer for a long minute, then sighed and shrugged. “There was an apocalypse. The worst one.”

Her tone put all his senses on high alert. “The one future me died in.”

“That’s the one.” When she paused, he started kneading her scalp again, and her words flowed with the motion. “I’d made a call the others didn’t like. A dangerous call. And wanted to make another one.” She took in a shaky breath. “People were scared. Dying.”

Spike lifted a brow. “People are always dying, Slayer. Especially in wartime. Nothing new there.”

Buffy’s mouth drew a crooked line. “Maybe. But the Scoobies had–”

“The  _who_?”

“The, um, Scooby gang. That’s what my friends called our group. You know, investigators and protectors of the Hellmouth.”

How very bloody cutesy of them. “Were these pals of yours the tree witch and idiot boy you’ve mentioned?”

Buffy huffed out an exhale. “Willow and Xander. And yes, among others.” There was a pause as he tilted her head back into the spray and rinsed off the shampoo. She turned when he was done and motioned him toward the water. “You next?”

He startled. “Me?”

Buffy looked at him in confusion. “Well, yeah. You did me, so…” When he didn’t move, understanding parted her mouth. “Oh. Drusilla never…”

Something strange tightened his throat as he realized he didn’t know how to answer that. He and Dru had cleaned up together plenty of times, although his sire had always preferred still water over the harshness of showers. She’d sit in the tub for hours, until the cold water left her pale skin utterly pruned. In the early days, she’d liked to find a lake; she’d swim through it all night, hunting the fish and any late night swimmers unlucky enough to tread the depths. He’d taken down no small number of careless lovers with her that way. They usually shagged by the bodies afterward, the moonlight turning all the pools of blood to silver, before hauling the corpses into the water and weighting them down with rocks. Dru loved to twirl and sing as they sank out of sight.

“It wasn’t like this,” he finally said.

Buffy regarded him thoughtfully, but didn’t press the issue, instead uncapping the Polytar and squeezing some onto her palms. He obediently moved under the water, soaking his hair before tilting his head out of the spray and arching his back down so she could easily reach his scalp. Buffy made a sound of approval and ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp with her nails. He sighed in pleasure and slumped farther into her grip.

“Bloody hell, that’s nice.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “Very.” She lathered him in silence for a moment then said very softly, “They kicked me out of my house.”

Spike stiffened, a growl rising in his chest. “Your mates?”

Buffy gave a sharp, humorless bark of laughter. “Not just them. Everyone. My Watcher. My sister. The other active Slayer at the time. All the Potential Slayers…”

He twisted around with a snarl. “Why the fuck did you let them? It was  _your_  sodding house.”

Buffy shrugged, looking tired. “They had strength in numbers and I…”

His growl grew louder, and he barely stopped from shifting into his demon’s face, fury pouring through him. “And where the hell was I? Wasn’t dead yet, was I?”

“No. They’d sent you away on a mission.” Her mouth curved into a faint smile. “When you came back, you punched the other Slayer a lot and then came and found me.”

“Bloody right I did! Should have killed the bitch.”

He got an outright smile this time. “You offered.”

“Didn’t take me up on it?”

“Nope.” She shrugged again. “Wasn’t worth it.”

Spike snorted. “Says you. With future me turned into a fucking white hat, that was probably my best chance to get another notch on my Slayer killing belt.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, her hand rising to stroke his cheek. He nuzzled against it. “C’mon, let’s get you rinsed.”

 

***

 

The sun was almost set, but Buffy was too comfortable to move, half sprawled over Spike’s chest as he sat up against the headboard, lighting a cigarette with the zippo.

It had been hours since she’d walked into the bedroom after their shower and stopped short at the gigantic claw marks marring the mattress.

“What the hell happened to the bed?”

Spike had stilled, eyes flicking to the injured mattress. “Came here after I…” He looked back at her. “Last night. Was trying to convince myself not to go after you this morning. Didn’t work.”

Shocked realization and relief coursed through her. “You didn’t go back to Drusilla last night.”

Blue eyes held hers steadily, softer now that the shower had washed all the eyeliner away. “Not for a second.” He strode toward the mattress. “Help me flip this, Slayer? We’ll test out the other side.”

And they had. A lot.

“Are you going to stare at me every time I use this, luv?”

Buffy shrugged, watching as Spike fidgeted with the lighter between his fingers. “It’s just… it’s so you.”

Spike's lips quirked. “It’s a nice piece, I’ll grant you. How’d I get it in your time?”

“I have no idea. You’d had it since we met. Maybe you still killed the slime demon without me around.”

Spike snorted. “Wouldn’t doubt it.” He paused meaningfully. “Or might be I killed whoever he scavenged it from.”

Buffy swallowed, a waft of the manly coal tar smell from the shampoo abruptly reminding her that the apartment they were in was a dead man’s. One Spike had killed. God, she’d gotten frighteningly comfortable here. “Maybe.”

Spike cocked his head at the zippo as if answers were written on the metal. “What happened to it after I dusted?”

Buffy sighed. “I took it. I took it everywhere, even to Lloyd’s cave.”

He arched a brow at her. “Yeah? So what makes you sure you didn’t just bring the 2003 lighter back to ’77?”

“Easy. The lighter from 2003 is still  _in_  2003, in my backpack.” She grimaced. “Along with my phone and credit cards.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Why’d you haul a phone around in your rucksack?”

A laugh escaped before Buffy could stop it. “Phones are much smaller in 2003. And they don’t have to be wired into the wall to work. Plus, some of the fancier models have other technologies included, like mapping systems and, um, information databases." Willow had been talking about her new Blackberry for weeks before Buffy had left for Lloyd's cave—an early Christmas present from the redhead's latest girlfriend.

“Huh." Spike's eyes narrowed in consideration. "Could be useful if you got yourself into a jam."

"It is. Very."

He took another drag of his cigarette, looking speculative. “Don’t suppose you lot have figured out the flying cars bit yet?”

Buffy snorted, snuggling into his chest as his free arm curled around her back. The exhaustion of the past day and their sexathon and her slight blood loss was making her lightheaded and officially drowsy. “Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you speculating about the time travel meaning behind the discovery of the lighter (and which era the zippo was actually from): theoretically, Spike could have gotten the lighter anywhere pre-canon, since its origin is never stated; so in my mind, he got it in ’77 New York when he was busy amassing his armor-accessories—just not in the exact way he ended up getting it here.
> 
> And just for fun, I will tell you that we’re not going the “she goes back in time but nothing actually changed route.” Those stories wreck me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write one.


	27. Scar Tissue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the fabulous yellowb for beta'ing

The sun was almost fully set. He could feel it sinking down in his veins, that darkening—it made his blood race. Buffy had dozed off a few minutes back, her presence softening with sleep as her slight frame curled into his. Her skin was like velvet, the warm flesh dotted with a half hundred faint scars. He ran a finger across a large circular mark on her side—what had once been some kind of nasty stab wound, by all appearances. This Slayer was a hell of a warrior. He rubbed the scar beneath his pierced brow with a slight smile.

Angelus’d had a fascination with scars back in the day. He’d been the bloody epitome of a Byronic Romantic in vampiric form, drawing murals on young girls’ skin and keeping them trussed up for months so he could watch all the pen strokes of his torture turn into permanent ruin. Spike had joined in a number of times at the elder vamp’s urging, but looking into the girls’ hollow eyes and listening to their desperate prayers had made him uneasy. Twice, he’d snapped a girl’s neck when Angelus left the room. He’d paid dearly for it both times, but he didn’t regret a damn thing. One of the girls had looked just like Dru.

Christ. Dru.

He nudged Buffy’s shoulder.

“Slayer.”

“Mmm?”

“Wake up.”

She grumbled something incoherent against his chest, her fingers digging into his skin like a cat warning against further disturbance. Impossible, twisted bint. He, of all vampires, wasn’t supposed to be the Slayer’s bloody nesting place. But he was. Fucking hell, he’d officially volunteered for the position as of this morning. It left him shockingly less bothered than he’d imagined—but then, he was Love’s Bitch, public declaration or no. His last protection, those unspoken words. Not that it made fuck all difference in the end. And with how much he kept shagging Buffy in public, it wouldn’t be long before some demon stuck his nose where it didn’t belong and figured the situation out. Before they figured  _her_  out. A shiver of disquiet went through him.

“We ought to leave the city, you and me.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed against him and she seemed to rouse herself slightly, half-awake green eyes regarding him in confusion. “Huh?”

“We should leave New York, luv.”

Buffy shook her head and yawned, lifting herself onto her elbows. “I heard you. I just… why?”

He shrugged. “No reason to stay now and plenty to leave.”

Buffy regarded him unreadably. “What, so, you came, you saw, you conquered, and now it’s time to be on your way?”

A pleased grin split his lips. “That’s right.  _Veni, vidi, vici_ , luv. And there’re loads of other lands you and I can do the same to. Just name the place and we’ll head there tomorrow.”

Instead of looking excited, Buffy exhaled a tired breath. “God, it’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

“Come again?”

She sat up and away from him, shaking her head. “It’s so easy for you,” she murmured again, sounding frustrated. Her eyes held his steadily. “Spike, that’s not how this is going to work. I’m not your new Drusilla. We’re not going to go off gallivanting around the world.”

Annoyance threaded through him. “Well, why the hell not? Got something better to do?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she snapped. “I still need to find out how to get back to 2003, and the contact from Syl’s doesn’t get back from vacation for two weeks.”

Spike stiffened, panic and anger lancing through him. She wanted to go back to her time still? “Your future is gone, Slayer. Why the hell do you need to know how to get back to nothing?”

Buffy sighed, her pert little breasts heaving. “I don’t know for sure that it’s gone. What if Lloyd actually sent me to an another dimension and mine is just the way I left it?”

A growl rumbled through his chest. “Then bully for that dimension! It’ll do bloody fine without you.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not your decision to make.”

His growl turned into an outright snarl and he leaned forward, gripping her upper arms in a furious, bruising hold. “You’re  _mine_  now, Slayer. If you think I’m letting you go, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Buffy wrenched herself out of his hold even as she scooted closer, heavy determination written across her face. “It’s not just that I don’t know if I want to stay… I don’t know if I even  _can_  stay. There could be some horrible weirdness about me being here too long. With my luck, it’ll cause an apocalypse.”

Amusement edged into his anger. “That’s your kind of luck, is it? Best stay away from the betting parlors then.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They stared at one another tensely and Spike realized he didn’t know what the fuck to say. Buffy wasn’t leaving, that much he was sure of, but arguing the point with her didn’t seem like it was about to get him anywhere at the moment. And there was other pressing business to take care of. He pursed his lips and turned away, swinging his feet to the floor as he stood. “Right.”

Buffy watched him in confusion from where she was still kneeling in the middle of the bed. “What are you doing?”

He paused in the bedroom doorway for a second before continuing down the hall. “I have to go see Dru.”

There was heavy silence from behind him, then Buffy’s stiff and deliciously naked form appeared, her arms wrapped protectively around her waist. “Why?”

He strode to the old man’s chair and pulled his t-shirt over his head, biting back a small groan as the fabric brushed his much-abused nipples. They were damningly sensitive after the treatment Buffy had given them with her fingers and mouth for the past several hours. Christ, she was a magnificent animal. “Gotta make sure she’s put up alright. She’s still my sire.“ He glared at Buffy defiantly. “You having me in your clutches doesn’t change that.”

A dozen different emotions flashed over Buffy’s face before she looked away. “Come back soon,” she said tightly, with a slight break in her voice that he could tell she hated; her fingers tightened into fists against her waist.

Well, served her bloody right. She’d wanted him at her heels and now that he was nearly there, the bitch was thinking of flouncing off back to fucking Neverland.

He gave her a disdainful, sneering look as he tugged his jeans on. “First off, I don’t take commands from you, Slayer, no matter how much you may have me by the shorthairs. And second off, you’re in no position to be making demands of my presence when I don’t apparently have a single say in yours.”

Buffy’s gaze snapped back to him, her hard expression softening as she caught the distress he didn’t want to show. “Spike.”

“No.” He slid on his duster, anger running hot through his veins. “Feeling peckish,” he added dangerously. “Might be a while.” And fucking hell, if she asked him not to kill, he was going to grab the nearest bloke or bird and wring their neck right in front of her.

But Buffy just closed her eyes in a long blink and turned away. “Okay.”

He stared at her. Okay? Fucking _okay_? His anger turned into blinding fury. “Think I'm that much of your dog now, do you? That you don’t need to even worry about all the nice little walking snacks anymore because I care too bloody much about hurting you?”

Buffy’s turned back to him, eyes flashing. “That would be nice, yeah, but that’s not what I think.” She winced, rubbing an exhausted hand over her brow. “I just… I don’t want to know right now. I don’t want to be mad.”

His eyes narrowed as he snarled at her. “You've got no right to be mad at me.”

“Not at you. At  _me_.” Her expression turned distraught and guilty. “I'm in love with a demon.”

He snorted derisively, waving his arms in exasperation. “You were in your time, too, pet. That white hat wouldn’t have made me less of a monster, it just means I wasn’t doing much to make you remember the fact.”

Buffy considered him for a long moment, her green eyes turmoiled over something, before finally whispering, “You tried to be a kind of man in my time.”

“What the sodding hell does _that_  mean?”

Her eyes flicked away from him, down to her hands. She rubbed the gruesome scar that extended over her left knuckles almost lovingly. It hadn’t much occurred to him before, but those marks looked an awful fucking lot like fingerprints. Buffy’s eyes met his again. “You got a soul.”

He froze. “I  _what_?”

She didn’t repeat it, just held his gaze with steady pride and some other mix of emotions he suddenly didn’t want to understand. He understood plenty now. All the white hat business… the fucking extenuating circumstances… the very fact that she—Heaven’s Chosen One—had completed the demon trials to get him back. Of course. A sodding soul.

His future self hadn’t changed. He’d just been leashed. Groveling. Pathetic. The spitting image of his poofed up grandsire. Spike’s chest gave an entirely unpleasant lurch.

“So all that rot about me changing… “ he said with deathly, vicious quiet. “You just want me to get a soul shoved up my arse.”

“No!” Buffy took a deep breath, biting her lip. “I mean... if you want it sometime, I…”

Nauseous anger made the room tilt sideways and he turned away from her, his eyes concentrating on the flat door. “Sod off, Slayer.”

“Spike, I–”

“ _Sod. Off. To. Hell, sweetheart_.” His demon shifted through, steadying him, and he managed to glance back at her panicked form with an expression that hopefully looked less shattered than he felt. “You’re right that you’re not a new Dru. She never claimed to love me just so she could pull the rug out from under me. That was Angelus’s gig.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open. “Spike, I’m not–”

“ _Don’t_.”

Fire filled Buffy’s eyes and she stared him down regally, her hands on her hips. “Listen to me. You started changing long before the soul.”

“Yeah? Did you decide you loved me before the soul, too?” It all made sense now. Her panic at loving this version of him. Her self-loathing for sleeping with the other version of him. Their change of circumstances before his future self’s dusty end.

Buffy’s eyes turned shiny with unshed tears and her hands slipped off her hips. “It was complicated.” Her fingers reached toward him. “But I– I love you now.”

He took a step backward—out of her reach. “Yeah, and you’re right chuffed about it.” He shook his head and turned away from her. “I’ve got to see to Dru.”

He fled the flat before Buffy could reply, his chest in knots and his head aching. Tears threatened as he swept into the night; he steadfastly glared through his demonic eyes until the urge lessened. Monsters didn’t cry.


	28. Of Monsters and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all, sorry for being incommunicado as of late. A lingering migraine took me out of the writing/review answering game for about a week. Thankfully, as of today, it's mostly gone, and I'm back! So please enjoy!
> 
> Note of warning: some disturbing graphic imagery.
> 
> Piles of virtual gold and chocolate to yellowb for her as always amazing input. This chapter and I would still be giving each other loads of disgruntled side-eye without her.

Spike’s gaze sharpened on the dark-haired bint wandering in front of him down Crosby Street, her heels clicking against the cobblestones. She was barely more than skin and bones; a junkie or a whore, or both—though if the latter, she was on her off-hours. Blokes didn’t tend to fork out much dosh for a bint in a painted-up jacket and cutoff shorts. He, on the other hand, didn’t give a fuck what she was wearing.

He was a bloody monster, and it was well past time he started acting like one again.

He was in front of her before she took another step. Ah, definitely a whore, and a  _Nuyorican_ , from the look of her. Her make-up was too damn heavy, and there were dark circles under her eyes—at least one of them care of someone’s fist. Her brown eyes were wide with startled fear.

“Hello, luv.”

She took a step back. Smart girl. “I don’t have any money,” she said immediately, hands thrust forward in a defensive pose.

He grinned predatorily and met her step for step as she retreated backward, away from the approaching main intersection. “Don’t want your money, ducks.”

His entire body hummed with anticipation as fear rolled from her in a delicious wave. Angelus had taught him all about that scent once upon a time. The elder vampire'd held a young girl by her throat, her eyes practically bulging from their sockets, as he instructed fledgling William.  _You smell that fear, boy? Now watch: the moment I unclamp my fingers, this lass is going to scream. She can’t help it. Soak it in and wait it out. The trick here, Willy, is to wait long enough that she pauses and gets a bit of hope in her. Then you go in for the kill._ Spike never waited long enough for Angelus’s liking. But then, he’d always been an impatient bastard.

Spike’s grin widened as the Hispanic whore pulled out a pocketknife from her shorts and brandished it at him. “Get the hell away from me, cabrón.”

“Cute,” he told her with a leer. “But I think mine are sharper, yeah?” His demon came to the fore and the sense of the bird’s terror increased tenfold as he flashed his fangs. Her racing heartbeat thundered in his adjusted ears.

She backed into an alley wall and whimpered, her entire frame shaking. It didn’t take much to rip the knife from her fingers as he pinned her body against his and bent down toward her clammy, perfumed skin. His lips paused an inch from her jumping pulse. “Now,” he growled, “would be a real good time to scream.”

She did.

They always did when he wanted them to.

Spike sank his fangs deep into her carotid, shifting one hand over her mouth to muffle the noise. She still screamed, all the muscles in her neck corded. The vibrations washed through his body, quickening the flow of blood down his throat into a perfect, thrumming meter. For all the rot about the taste of light and the smell of beauty that his neophytic human self had penned once upon a time, he’d never really thought of such a thing as literal until he’d risen as a vampire. Not until he’d smelled desperation, tasted terror, heard death. Sod the written word—being a vampire  _was_  poetry.

Shame the bint’s blood was so pallid. Not even the spice of her fear helped much. It was nothing like Slayer blood.  _Buffy’s_  blood. Blood that’d been filled with light and fire, heady with desire. Rich with love. Buffy’s face swam in front of him—anxious and teary.  _I love you now._

Fuck.

He reached inward to push the demon down, and found it unnervingly already gone. He was just licking the girl’s neck. She was trembling in his arms—no, that was him. The bint had passed out a moment ago. Christ, everything had gone entirely cock-eyed. He laid her down on the ground and listened to her thready pulse. She’d live. Buffy wouldn’t hate herself. Wouldn’t hate him.

He spared the bird one last look and then turned on his heel, desperation fueling his steps he swept toward his sire’s nest.

 

***

 

The flat building was quiet when he arrived—the minions mostly out hunting or carousing—but, to his satisfaction, Lux was still on the ground level. The mohawked minion scrambled to his feet as he saw Spike enter, wrenching away from the bundle of cloth in the seat next to him. “Boss! You’re back!”

“Told you I would be.” Spike glanced at the bundle, his eyes narrowing when it started to move and fuss—the mild noise turning quickly to an earsplitting wail.

Lux winced and covered his ears. “Was hoping it’d settle down after it fed.” A bead of blood fell from the minion’s wrist and landed on the ground.

Oh hell.

Spike strode over and threw the swaddle back on the little form. It had been a newborn once upon a time—its pink, wrinkled features now gruesomely scrunched and pale. Blood stained its fanged mouth, amber eyes scrunched up as it cried.

He glanced at Lux. “Dru?”

Lux nodded nervously. “She asked me to watch it.”

Spike sighed, running a tense hand through his hair. Sodding hell, he hated when she turned children. Not that she even meant to do it half the time. She’d have a ravaged, nearly dead babe at her tit and slice herself open to “feed” the sprog. Sometimes blood would get down their little throats and a few days later the corpse would be up and wailing again.

“Sorry, mate,” he told the fledgling nipper, then wrenched its little head off, the spine cracking violently apart around his fingers. Dust settled back into the swaddling fabric. He lifted his gaze and glared at Lux. “You see her make anymore and you dust them as soon as she’s out of the room, you hear me?”

“Yeah, Boss. Sure thing.”

When the minion still looked antsy, Spike’s glare deepened. The sense of his sire was itching along his spine, so Dru was upstairs at least. “Out with it.”

“She, um.” Lux wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t think the Mistress is alone.”

The lance of pain that announcement had always caused didn’t coalesce. “Ta.”

Spike headed swiftly up the stairs and threw open the door to what had once been his flat. His nostrils flared as the overwhelming scent of blood invaded his senses.

“Oh, bloody hell, Dru.”

Three corpses were draped over the sofa in one of his sire’s classic marionette set-ups. A longhaired brunette and a blond bloke with fang-shaped marks carved into their upper lips held a blonde bird between them. The blonde bird was heavily mutilated and her throat was gaping; her blood drenched the sofa and the two other figures. Well, wasn’t hard to suss out the meaning of this particular scene; his own words from a month ago made flesh with stand-ins. _We’ll feast from her together—drain her dry and bathe in her blood._

A familiar shiver passed over his skin as Dru slid silently into the room, naked as a jaybird. “I painted you such a pretty picture last night,” she said sadly, motioning toward the tableau of death, “but you didn’t come to see it. Didn’t come back to me.”

“Sorry, pet.” He sniffed in her direction. “And you don’t seem like you’ve been suffering.” The odor of sex and rotting meat was heavy around her—a praexis demon, most likely. Sodding carrion eaters. Apparently the corpses wouldn’t be going to waste.

“A girl has to take her pleasures where she can,” Dru said absently, running a long finger down her breastbone. “My knight is lost in the sun. But you’ll come back to me. Just like daddy.”

“Dru... luv.” He shook his head, glancing again toward the scene of Buffy’s faux-death. “I’m not coming back.”

Dru just stared at him, implacable. “Time still squawks—Loy! Loy! I see it laughing with the stars.”

Cold dread poured through him. “What do you mean, Dru?”

“Naughty boy,” she murmured. “Go full into the sunshine and off it’ll flit. Back to where the beasties gobble her up.” She twirled around him with a childlike smile, arms outstretched. “It’ll go all to cinders. Ashes, ashes, it all falls down.”

He grabbed her arms with a growl and she stumbled to a halt. “No,” he snarled, shaking her slight frame, “it won’t. That’s her other time. Not here, not now.”

Dru giggled at him, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Here and there. It’s all the same, my Spike. There are always ashes.”

His throat tightened as hopeless resignation hit. Was he doomed to become Buffy’s version of him? God, he couldn’t imagine it—sure as fuck didn’t want it—but imagining not being with her now seemed worse. “Then there’ll be ashes,” he managed hoarsely. “I still… I still want… Christ.” His legs failed him and he found himself kneeling, looking desperately up into his sire’s face. “She’s in my throat, Dru. My gut. Roiling here.” His palm slapped over his heart. “Why can’t I get her out?”

Dru ran her fingers through his hair with a low soothing hum. “You don’t want her out, my William,” she said simply.

God help him, he didn’t.

He let his eyes close and rested his forehead against her bare hip, the woman who’d given him a century of life bathed in death. “I’m going to grab my things and then I’m going to go. Don’t dust Lux, alright? He’s going to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Dru held a finger over his lips, her dark eyes entirely unconcerned. “Shhh. You won’t be gone long.”

Fear rose heavy in him again. What if Buffy had changed her mind about them—about him? Decided his soulless, monstrous self wasn’t good enough after all? He hadn’t exactly left her with any reason to stay.  _God, no_. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. He rose quickly to his feet, pressed a kiss to Dru’s knuckles, and strode into the bedroom to pack.

 

***

 

Buffy stared blankly at the TV as her roommates enthusiastically yelled answers at an episode of  _The Match Game_. She hadn’t been able to stay in Spike’s apartment after he left. Couldn’t wait for him to come back and tell her—honestly, this time—that he didn’t want her. That Drusilla had welcomed him back with open arms and that he was so much better off in her evil bosom—able to traipse around the world without a second thought or worry. Something that, even if Buffy stayed in 1977, she’d never be able to give him. Thankfully, only Val had seen her come in earlier in the evening.

“Girl, do I need to kick that punk’s ass for you, or what?”

“I look that bad, huh?” When Val just raised a brow, she sighed. “No. If his ass needed kicked, I’d do it myself. It wasn’t his fault this time.”

Now, several hours later, she still wasn’t sure whose fault it was, if anyone’s. Maybe she and Spike were just pathetically doomed. It had seemed wrong to keep not mentioning the soul and yet… the look of betrayal on his face made her wish she’d kept it to herself.

Even in Sunnydale after Spike had gotten his soul, talk of it had been forced. Heck, it had taken him crazily draping himself over a cross to even admit that he had it. Still, he’d quietly taken pride in it; it was something he could point to as a voluntary point of change. Something he’d done to prove himself to her. And he  _had_  proven himself. God, he’d saved the world. But he would have done the same thing years before that, too.

_Every night I save you._

She’d been in too much of a resurrection coma at the time to really the comprehend the rambling confession that'd surrounded those words—hadn’t want to be saved, just wanted to be back in heaven—but now the memory struck her like a blow. A soulless demon would have sacrificed his existence for hers just because he loved her. And now here she was with a second chance and a Spike who was still the same damn demon. Still hers. Except, maybe not hers after the last blowout.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Buffy’s gaze snapped blindly away from the TV at Andrea’s soft question, and she realized belatedly that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Damnit. She wiped them away with a shaky smile.

“Yeah, fine. No big.”

Val nudged her shoulder. “We’re heading downstairs for a smoke. Wanna join?”

Buffy smiled at the other woman gratefully. “No, thanks. I’ll just be here”—her eyes flicked back to the TV—“watching this commercial for Triscuits.”

Julian grinned at her, a cigarette dangling between his lips. “Riveting stuff.”

“Groundbreaking,” Steve agreed.

“Just wait until you see the new Oscar Meyer one,” David added.

Val rolled her eyes and shepherded them all out the door.

By the time they came back, Buffy had, in fact, seen the new Oscar Meyer commercial, as well as an ad for  _The Captain and Tennille Show_ , and one for a women’s deodorant apparently called Tickle. Buffy opened her mouth to make a quip about it, but stopped when she saw Val’s face. The other woman looked warningly solemn. “Everything okay?”

Julian collapsed into the armchair next to her with a shrug. “Punk guy out there is asking for you.”

Buffy’s heart leapt up into her throat.

“Yeah,” Andrea agreed. “I told him he could come in, but he just gave me a funny look.”

Steve lifted a brow at Buffy. “He’s your boyfriend or something, right?”

“Or something,” Buffy agreed quietly. She rose to a stand. “Thanks. I’ll go say hi.”

Andrea still looked confused. “Tell him that he really can come upstairs. It’s not like we’ve got a thing against punks.”

“And we only bite a little,” David added merrily.

Buffy gave him a wry look as she headed toward the door. “Well,  _he_  bites a lot.”

“Bring him on up then,” was Julian’s cheery call.

 

***

 

Spike was—not shockingly—smoking when she opened the door to the outside. Buffy caught the brief snick of his lighter as he closed it and stuck it in his duster pocket, blue eyes turning toward her in the dark. For a long moment they just stared at each other. Then something broke in Spike’s expression, though she wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

“You’ve ruined me, you bitch,” he whispered.

Oh. A small, anxious laugh fluttered out between her lips. “Wow. So not what I expected you to say.”

The cigarette got flicked away. “No?” Spike’s voice was rough. “What did you expect?”

“Honestly? That you…” She drew in a shaky breath, clenching her fists. “That you were done with me. Or… I don’t know.”

Spike didn’t reply, so she took a step closer and then another, until they were standing side-by-side against the loading dock. Spike stared unblinkingly out into the dark.

“Spike?”

His eyes darted to her and away. “I’m a monster, Buffy. No matter what I was in your time, this is–” His voice cracked. “This is what I am.”

“That's not all you are,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have... Spike, the soul isn’t what mattered between us.”

“Bollocks.” His voice was flat, but all the anger from earlier seemed gone from it.

“No, it’s not ‘bollocks’.” She wrinkled her nose at the word, and caught the edges of Spike’s brief grin. “It’s just– it meant a lot to me that you got it. And it made the loving you part easier.”

Spike still wouldn’t look at her. His chest was heaving with unneeded breath. “If that’s what you want from me… If that’s what you need to stay here with me…” His breath hitched. “God, please don’t ask that of me.”

Her heart broke in her chest. Somehow they’d come full circle to Sunnydale—thinking the only way she’d ever want to be with him was if he had a soul. Of course, she’d all but proved him right last time. “Spike,” she said thickly, “do you know why I’m here?”

“Bleeding rock demon with a vile sense of humor?”

A mordant smile quirked her lips. “Lloyd grants boons based on thoughts. And I thought of you.”

Spike turned toward her, confusion stamped across his face. “Well, yeah. Got that part already, Slayer.”

“No, I mean, I thought of  _you_. Dangerous, unsouled Slayer of Slayers.”

His lips parted in surprise, blue eyes widening. “Why would you do that?”

Buffy slumped helplessly against the loading dock. “Because I fell in love with you unsouled, even though I couldn’t…” Her voice failed her. She tried again: “I didn’t  _know_  the souled you very well. I was so proud of you and I’m sure that version of you and me would’ve figured each other out again—figured out how to fit together. We were getting there when you died but…”

Spike’s eyes were glued on her, glittering in the dark. “But you already fit with me.”

“I did.”

“But you didn’t want to.” There was a bitter edge to his voice.

“No,” she said bluntly, “I didn’t. My life was a mess— _I_ was a mess. I didn’t want to deal with what you and I had. I wasn’t ready.”

Spike barked a laugh. “And you think I am? Christ, Slayer, you’ve come at me a quarter of a bloody century early.”

Her heart rose into her throat again. “What does that mean?”

Spike flung his arms wide and fixed her with a fierce, desperate gaze. “It means I…fuck, Buffy, if it means you won’t go, I’ll try not to let you remember I’m a monster.”

“So, what, you’re offering to be my neutral boyfriend instead of my evil one? A vampire version of Switzerland?”

Spike's fierceness faded in the wake of her slightly amused question, and uncertainty made his arms drop. “Is that enough?”

Once, that wouldn’t have been enough. Hadn’t been, years ago. But then, she hadn’t understood or believed what he was offering before. His reputation, his heart, his demon on a chain.

Buffy stepped close to him, the toes of her boots against his. The glint of his newly applied eyeliner flashed in the dark. War paint to come and confront her. “Kiss me.”

A growl rumbled from Spike’s throat and he tugged her against him, encasing her in leather. “I suppose it’s your point again,” he muttered.

“Yep.” She pulled her arms up and wrapped them around his neck, tugging him closer. His belt buckle pressed into her stomach above the hard line of his cock through his jeans. Reckless decision flashed through her. “But yours, too.” She smiled crookedly up at him. “I still have to find out what it means for me to be all blast-to-the-past girl, but if I don’t have to leave, I– I won’t. Even if my timeline is still intact.”  _Sorry, Dawnie and everyone._  Her sister, at least, would understand. Willow, too. Maybe even Xander.

Relieved wonder filled Spike’s face. “Buffy,” he whispered, the syllables falling with reverence. His lips descended on hers, demanding and devouring. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist in forceful embrace.

Buffy lost herself in his kiss, so caught up in their dueling tongues that his temperature didn’t register for a minute. He was slightly warm. She broke away from his mouth. “Did you…”

Spike regarded her in bewilderment. “Did I what?”

“You’re warm.”

Understanding bloomed in his eyes. His jaw clenched, his arms tightening further around her. “I didn’t kill, Slayer. Couldn’t.”

Gratitude and love swelled in her breast. She unwrapped her arms from his neck and laced her fingers with his, gently breaking his hold. She tugged him toward the factory door. “C’mon.”

Spike followed her, his brow furrowed. “What’re we doing?”

“Going to hang out with my roommates and watch 70’s TV.”

Spike snorted in amusement. “Pet, it’s all 70’s TV here.”

“Yeah, well.” Buffy paused as she held open the door, her thoughts running over themselves. “You know how before, you said you knew we hadn’t torn each other to shreds because I was still standing?”

Spike lifted a brow. “I remember."

“What if,” she said quietly, “at the end of things, you and I are both still standing?”

“Hearts exchanged and all that?”

“And all that.”

Spike’s eyes flicked skyward. “Fuck if I know, Slayer. Heaven. Hell. Goddamn revelation?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote wikipedia, because they phrase it just as well as I can: "Nuyorican is a portmanteau of the terms 'New York' and 'Puerto Rican' and refers to the members or culture of the Puerto Rican diaspora located in or around New York City, or of their descendants (especially those raised or still living in the New York area)."
> 
> It's been used in a range of ways—from derogatorily to proudly, depending on the speaker—and has been in semi-common use since the mid-70's. Its popular use stemmed from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in NYC, which was part of the huge Puerto Rican art movement in the 70's, and which I like to imagine Spike following with much put-upon disinterest.


	29. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaping amounts of love to yellowb, who I'm convinced is a Darkling mind reader (and who is brilliant besides)
> 
> Warning: some mild drug use

“Hey, guys, this is Spike.”

Buffy’s herd of roommates was clustered around the hulking cathode television in their upper floor factory flat, but all of their attention was fixed expectantly, unnervingly on him. He wanted to show them how strongly they could fuck off with those stares but, unfortunately, threatening to eat this bunch or flashing them his fangs would probably result in a brassed off Slayer—and he’d promised Buffy he’d behave around humans. Christ, how was he supposed to act around them? He hadn’t felt this out of his depth since  _he_  was human.

Sod that.

He tucked his thumbs cockily through his belt loops and stared back leeringly at them. “’Lo, kiddies. So, what’s on the telly?”

“Pull up a seat, dude,” said the bint with leopard print leggings—the one who’d invited him in earlier. She looked disconcertingly pleased to see him. Stupid chit. “ _Saturday Night Live_  rerun is almost on.”

Buffy tugged him toward the open seat at the end of the sofa and pushed him down in it. He was about to protest joining their cozy little commune when Buffy settled herself on his lap, her arse wiggling enticingly over his rapidly swelling prick.

“Devious wench,” he growled against her ear, gripping her waist warningly tight.

Buffy turned toward him, artfully wide-eyed and clearly stifling a smile. “I don’t know what you mean.” She pointed at the print-wearing bint. “That’s Andrea. The guy in the ragged jeans is Julian.” The bloke in question gave him a cheeky, admiring grin. A pillow biter if there ever was one. “David’s on the floor.” Buffy pointed toward the shorter blond bloke on the floor, who looked barely out of bloody secondary school. “And you already know Val and her boyfriend Steve.”

“We’ve got another roommate, too,” added Val’s mousy boyfriend. “But Kell’s hardly ever here anymore.”

Val snorted. “Yeah, the bastard’s abandoned us for the blue-collar world.”

“May he rest in peace,” David intoned solemnly.

Spike snorted. “The dullard’s way out.”

“Hear, hear!” the poofter—Julian—said raucously. A pleased smile spread across the bloke’s face as he glanced at the telly. “Oh, rad, it’s the Coneheads episode.” His hand flicked down to his trousers pocket and came back out with a wrinkled joint. “This calls for some  _accoutrements_.”

Spike snorted. “You art types.”

Julian shrugged as he lit the piece, legs thrown up over the arm of the chair. “I’ve got some China white in my room if you want it.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed cutely in clear confusion.

“Heroin, luv,” Spike murmured in amusement.

Her lips parted in a silent  _oh_.

“Nah, mate,” Spike said more audibly. “I like it red and on tap.” Buffy stiffened slightly on his lap, which didn’t have the effect she was probably hoping for, as it put more of her warm weight right on his cock.

David’s nose wrinkled. “Red? On tap?”

When Spike just smirked, Val concluded affably, “Some kind of punk slang he thinks he’s hot shit for knowing.”

Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth. “Ducks, I  _am_ hot.”

He could nearly feel Buffy roll her eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Why not?” Julian asked impishly.

Val snorted. “Jules, stop drooling. And shut the hell up now. We’re missing Nader’s opening monologue.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “You’ve already seen it like fucking twice.”

“Yeah, and now I’m going to see it for a fucking third time,” Val said, daggers in her eyes. “So, sit on it or I’ll talk through the Coneheads.”

Julian mimed zipping his trap shut, mouth smirking around the joint. He turned and winked at Spike before extending the joint to Buffy, who politely waved it away.

Spike’s amusement grew, and he tugged Buffy more closely against him as he relaxed back into the sofa. “Not even a bit of Mary Jane?” he said lowly into her ear, enjoying how his voice made her shiver. “You really are a regular Doris Day.”

Buffy shrugged, her shoulder blades brushing against his chest. “I tried it once at my first high school,” she said quietly. “Thought I was going to cough up a lung. I kind of like my organs where they are these days.”

That was all she had against it? “That,” he purred quietly, with delighted anticipation, “is an easy fix.”

He waited for the joint to make the round and gestured for it before Val’s Mouse Boy could hand it back to Julian.

“Look at me, luv.”

Buffy twisted slightly in his lap, eyeing him warily. Holding her skeptical gaze, he grinned and took a long drag. It tasted like it bloody well smelled—like skunky rubbish—but not the worst he’d had. It’d be much smoother on her end once his lungs were done cycling it through. He handed off the joint and lifted his hands to the back of Buffy’s head, guiding her face against his.

Buffy’s lips stiffly met his own, but a quick lash of his tongue turned her mouth pliable; she immediately started to nibble and suck. Too bad that wasn’t quite what he was going for at the moment. He wound her hair through his fingers and tugged it. She stilled at the silent command, her lips parting helpfully wide as he added pressure to the back of her head.

“Breathe in,” he whispered into her mouth, exhaling slowly. Cool smoke passed through his lips to hers in a steady stream as she inhaled. When he was sure Buffy had the last of the smoke, he pulled back slightly. “Hold it there.”

Buffy pressed her lips tightly together, diaphragm pushed high as unsure green eyes waited for his next instruction. Christ, she was sodding adorable.

When she’d held it for a ten count, he nodded at her. “Exhale, pet.”

She turned her head slightly to the side, but he caught her chin and turned her back. Warm, Buffy-scented smoke washed over him. He breathed it in heavily, nostrils flared and eyes half-lidded. “Fuck,” he whispered, “all of you is delicious.” His mouth curved into a lazy smirk. “And your lungs still seem to be in place.”

Buffy laughed softly, only a small cough evident in the sound. “They are.”

“Good.” He nudged her to turn back toward the TV. “Watch the telly for a bit, then we’ll do another hit.”

Buffy lifted a brow. “Are you trying to get me stoned?”

“Trust me,” he murmured against her ear. “You’ll like it.”

“We’ll see.”

 

***

 

Two hours, an episode of  _SNL_ , and a short jaunt down to Alphabet City later, Spike was watching an utterly stoned Slayer giggle helplessly as she shot pool and took a long, careless swig of some girly, watered down vodka drink that she’d had to direct the bartender how to make.

They’d ended up on East Fifth at Sophie’s, a favorite dive for all sorts—punks, the artsy crowd, laymen, general lowlifes, and a smattering of demons. There were at least several vamps in the vicinity, and he knew that was partly the reason Buffy’d been dominating the pool table. She’d slipped out to the ladies room an hour ago with the pool cue and come back with a faint sheen of vamp dust and a satisfied smile.

An edge of worry had lodged in his brain that she’d gone hunting stoned off her rocker, but there wasn’t anything in the vicinity that a seasoned warrior like her couldn’t probably defeat blindfolded and with one arm tied behind her back. She was the pinnacle of a brilliant Slayer and a stunning woman on top of it. And she was staying with him. She’d chosen him over whatever there was left of her time—even if it was fully intact.

He’d felt sick outside the factory waiting for her, sure that she was about to demand his complete submission—a soul, a white hat, and constant self-loathing—and not entirely sure that he wouldn’t give it to her. But she hadn’t asked for anything more than he’d offered, in the end. He was swollen with relief over it, and so overrun with ecstasial fire that all his innards were likely edged with the kind of ashes Dru swore would come.

But then, his sire also swore Buffy would leave him.

He watched Buffy take a shot against Val’s Mouse Boy and tamped down the sudden, desperate urge to fuck her atop the pool table in front of everyone. To sink his fangs into his marks and claim more of her blood for his own. To leave her such a mess of pleasure that she wouldn’t be able to corral enough brain cells together to think  _anything_ , never mind think of changing her mind about staying.

Buffy froze at the pool table and he wondered if she’d somehow read his intent through his eyes—but no, she was looking off toward the front of the bar. He followed her line of vision curiously.

One of the vamps in the place—a black, afroed bloke with an out-of-style beatnik sweater and too-short dark slacks—had sidled up to his mark for the night and was whispering pointedly in the man’s ear. Julian’s ear.

A growl erupted from Spike’s throat. Some little piece of shite fledgling thought he could go after Buffy’s people? He turned back to Buffy and saw her rounding the pool table, cue in hand.

“I’ve got this one,” he told her darkly and swept through the crowd as Buffy halted in clear surprise.

He snarled as the beatnik vamp trailed fingers down Julian’s throat, the two men grinding meaningfully together. A few steps away, Spike reached out and snagged Buffy’s flatmate, yanking him back from the fledge. Spike wrapped his arm low around the boy’s waist, rings digging mercilessly into the bare flesh of his hip.

“There you are,” Spike growled at the astonished flatmate. “Not trying to fuck around on me are you, pet?”

Julian just stared at him incredulously for a beat, then amusement filled his eyes. He affectionately leaned into Spike’s touch as if they were old lovers, hand sliding around to cup Spike’s arse through his back pocket. Randy bastard. “I wouldn’t do that to you, baby. Just having a good talk over here.”

“Good.” Spike smirked, staring down the other vamp with fatal promise. “Sod off.”

The beatnik vamp stepped back nervously. “Sorry, man. Didn’t realize he was taken.” He turned and melted through the crowd.

Spike swatted Julian’s hand off his arse. The boy lifted a brow, looking bemusedly after his would-be killer. “Know him, I take it?”

“Know his type. He’d drain you dry, and not in the fun way.”

Julian eyed Spike speculatively from beneath full lashes, a sly grin hovering. “Takes one to know one?”

Spike leered back at him. “That’s right, mate. Except you’d have fun with me.” He glanced back toward the pool table to find Buffy and the other roommates gaping at them. Oh hell. “Go assure your chums I’m not taking up with you, will you?”

He was out the door before Julian could reply.

The beatnik vamp was already halfway down the block, and Spike slid into a quick sprint, slamming the fledge into a nearby alley before he even knew what’d hit him. The beatnik gurgled helplessly, fanged out, as Spike held him dangling above the ground, a tight hand around the younger vamp’s throat. The fledge’s amber eyes widened with fright as he realized who held him captive.

“Hey!” he gasped. “I told you I d–didn’t know.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Spike snarled, letting his own demon shine through. “You went after one of my lady’s people.”

“I didn’t know,” the fledge squeaked again. “I didn’t see any marks.”

Spike just stared at him icily. “That’s not my problem, you pathetic little wankstain.”

The beatnik opened his mouth to protest again, but Spike just lifted his knee into the fledge’s stomach as he took both hands and twisted at the neck. The vamp burst into a shower of shocked dust. Spike spat on the ashes as they fell.

When he got back inside Sophie’s, Buffy made a beeline for him through the crowd. She grabbed his duster lapels, halting him in the middle of the room, and studied his face unreadably. “You dusted him, didn’t you?”

Spike shrugged. “Well, yeah. He went after your poof roommate.”

“That wasn’t your problem.”

He glared at her, offended. “Yes, it damn well was. You think I’m going to stand around while some moronic fledge takes out your nearest and dearest?”

A soft smile he didn’t quite understand spread across Buffy’s lips.

He shifted uneasily, scowling. “What?”

Buffy tugged him forward with his lapels and pressed her lips against his in a biting, fervent kiss that made him immediately hard. “I love you,” she said simply as she pulled away.

He frowned at her in confusion. A love affirmation just because he’d dusted a fledge for her chum? Wasn’t like she wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t. His eyes narrowed. “If you think this means I’m–”

“I don’t,” she interrupted sharply, but there was a gleam in her eyes he’d never seen before—one that sent a strange rush of emotion coursing through him. He suddenly wanted to know exactly the cause of that gleam so he could do it again. Then it hit: she was proud of him.

 _Oh, bloody hell._  No wonder he’d gone soft in her time.

He grimaced and shook his head at her still admiring expression. “Slayer, you’re a fucking wrecking ball.”

Buffy’s smile slipped; he immediately cursed himself for opening his gob. “Destroyer of things, that’s me.”

He sighed and pressed his forehead against hers. “Yeah, it is. And you’re ace at it. You make a monster not even mind all that much when you start rearranging his insides.”

Buffy pulled back from him, her smile thankfully reappearing. “Really?”

He clenched his jaw and nodded.

Buffy’s smile widened and she nuzzled against his shoulder, nearly purring. It seemed a touch of Mary Jane turned the Slayer into a full-fledged kitten. “Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“I’m hungry.”

He snorted a laugh and glanced over to where her flatmates had taken back up at the pool table, laughing and throwing the cue chalk. “Alright. We’ll round up your little factory chums and head out to get some grub.”

Buffy nodded eagerly as they walked toward the others. “Is there anything good around?”

“There’s a brilliant Ukrainian place just down the street. Open all night.”

Buffy’s lips quirked. “You know all the late night restaurants.”

“I like flavors,” he said defensively.

“And chicken wings. And those little mini pickles. And onion blossoms.”

He pursed his lips. “It’s bloody unnerving sometimes how much you know about me, Slayer.” He paused, his brain registering the last item. “Wait, what're onion blossoms?”

Buffy looked at him with startled delight. “You haven’t had them yet? Oh boy, do I have a surprise for you.”

“Luv, you’ve been nothing  _but_  surprises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, this is Nader’s opening monologue for the SNL episode that our factory roommates watched: https://vimeo.com/18814916 .
> 
> Also, Sophie's is still around, and is a last remaining refuge for dive culture in the neighborhood. heart

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A mood board inspired by The Darkling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039195) by [badwolfjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfjedi/pseuds/badwolfjedi)




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